


love is colder than death

by izzybusiness



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 18:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 46,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21141176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybusiness/pseuds/izzybusiness
Summary: Bartimaeus first meets Nathaniel at eight-thirty on a Monday morning. It’s not the most auspicious of meetings.Then again, when you’ve taken a job as a barista with the sole purpose of poisoning someone’s drink, he supposes that any sort of meeting is favourable to its end.





	1. zoom

It’s almost midnight when his phone rings. The sound of an upbeat pop song blasts through the room and instantly shatters the relative peace and quiet that had enclosed his flat like a sudden bullet through the skull. 

As usual, he tries his best to resist. 

But Queezle had chosen the song on purpose, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stand more than ten seconds of it. To this day, he has no idea what she programmed into the device that makes it impossible for him to get rid of her signature ringtone. She does handle all their technology and gadgets for a reason.

The song ends and then immediately starts up again without pause. He lets out an audible groan. He knows he’s stubborn enough to keep ignoring her calls, but he _also_ knows that Queezle is stubborn enough to keep ringing until he eventually does pick up. The two of them, they’re at something of a stalemate here.

The song moves into its chorus and he caves. Dammit.

“There has to be a better way of catching my attention,” he says by way of greeting. “Possibly one that won’t drive me to the brink of insanity.”

“There is no other way,” Queezle replies. “You’d never answer my calls otherwise.” She sounds distracted, no doubt gearing up to asking him what she called seventeen times to discuss.

“Out with it, then,” Bartimaeus says. “And make it quick, I’m busy.”

“My apologies for interrupting what I’m certain is an eventful evening of doing nothing,” she says dryly. “But I need a favour.” 

“Well, the answer is no,” Bartimaeus responds. Really, he doesn’t know what else she expected.

“The money is good,” she immediately returns, and maybe she does know him better than he cares to admit. “Better than usual.”

“I’m flattered by your reliance on my perceived greed,” Bartimaeus replies in a droll tone. “But I assume you’re aware that it’s Faquarl’s week. Unless… You’re not playing favourites now that the two of you have, as they say, shacked up, are you?”

He delivers this question with a touch of hesitation. He may like to poke fun at it when the situation suits him, but in all honesty, the particular details of _that_ relationship make his skin crawl. Quite frankly, he doesn’t ever want to know what goes on over there.

“That’s precisely the problem.” Queezle exhales slowly. “Faquarl has been…indisposed this evening. Possibly for a while.”

Despite the initial indifference, he can sense his growing interest. Details of Faquarl’s incompetence have always been noteworthy to him. “I’m listening.”

“The mark had a certain history of paranoia and psychotic delusions.” His mouth stretches into a grin. He has a feeling he knows where this is going. “Information that would have been impossible to come by without a long-term recon,” she adds, quick to come to her boyfr—her partn—the idiot’s defence. “The man apparently had a habit of having his food tested for poison, and when he dropped dead ten hours later, all eyes were on the chef who prepared his meal.”

Bartimaeus whistles lowly. “So, he’s fucked.”

Queezle goes on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Fortunately, Faquarl was wearing one of his disguises and managed to evade capture.” Bartimaeus can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. It’s a wonder what she sees in him, truly. “But things being what they are, we decided it’s in his best interest to lay low until the investigation into the restaurant dies down. That’s where you come in.”

“You want me to take over for him,” Bartimaeus finishes for her. He should have known taking this call would spell nothing but trouble.

“It’s all set up,” Queezle assures him. “Faquarl had some minor recon done before sending out the invitation—”

“A first for him, I’m sure,” Bartimaeus remarks wryly.

Queezle ignores him. “—and he’s even scouted out a place for you to take position—”

“How nice of him,” Bartimaeus continues in the same cadence. “The amount of effort really warms my heart. Tell me, did he do this before or after asking you to have me clean up the mess he got himself into?”

Once again, Queezle goes on as if he isn’t even there. He’s starting to feel a bit invisible over here. “—I can have all the gear sent over to your place, and by tomorrow afternoon, you’ll be free to live your exciting life as usual.”

He runs a hand down his face. “Alright, fine. I’ll do it. But we’re splitting the money eighty-twenty.”

“You can take that up with Faquarl,” Queezle replies breezily, more relaxed now that she’s gotten what she wanted. “I’m having everything brought over now. Be ready to go before six tomorrow.”

Bartimaeus wrinkles his brow. “You do mean six in the evening, right?” The dial tone in his ear. “Queezle?”

He slumps back against his seat, coughs when a cloud of dust rises up in response to this sudden movement. The quilted armchair is one of the only pieces of furniture in his otherwise spartan sitting room. Even then, it’s because it came with the flat. He tries not to make a habit of staying in the same place for too long. Especially because his job often takes him around the world at a moment’s notice. 

Two months ago, he had just returned from a year-long mission in Goa and was sleeping on Queezle’s couch when she announced that she and Faquarl had become…whatever they are, in his absence. This necessitated moving into his own place for the first time since their Academy days as opposed to bleaching his eyeballs every time he so much as walked into their shared living area and caught them in a comprising position.

Bartimaeus doesn’t care what Queezle says; he was not being melodramatic. Seeing them sitting next to each other like that was plain _weird_.

He sighs. Thinking about the two of them has his mind returning to the impending task at hand. Fantastic. And on his supposed month off, too, seeing as he took that mission in Goa. Though, now that he’s mulling it over, it is possible Queezle had him step up to it so that she and Faquarl could…never mind. It doesn’t matter. 

Bottom line is, his mentors at the Academy had definitely made the life of a professional assassin seem much more glamorous than it really is, what with all their talk of travelling the world and flexible schedules. If he had known otherwise, he might have been tempted to put his skills to better use. Like insurance fraud. Or possibly farming, he does have a rather strange connection with animals.

Then again, if Queezle is confident that he’ll have this whole business finished by the afternoon, he should be good to go. He never bothers to stick around and see what happens afterwards. In a job like this one, he’s learned that it’s best not to get involved in any way.

—

Dawn finds him perched on the rooftop of an ageing tower block, partially concealed by a cluster of gargoyle statues that sit leering and baring pointed teeth at him. He gets to work setting up the rifle Queezle had brought to his flat the night before, along with a single sheet of paper that served as Faquarl’s pathetic attempt at observation. Among the information included in neat typewritten text was the disconcerting fact that six in the morning is the time his mark usually gets up. That alone is enough to justify a hit in Bartimaeus’ book.

That and his name is Nathaniel. Bartimaeus can only imagine what kind of pretentious government snob named Nathaniel lives by himself in a swanky _yellow_ townhouse in the heart of Central London. The sooner he gets this over and done with, the better.

Faquarl’s brief notes also indicated that Nathaniel stepped out every morning at around six-thirty in order to collect the day’s newspaper from his front porch. From his vantage point, Bartimaeus has a great view of it now, all smooth, polished marble flooring and ornate carvings sloping down the steps that lead off from the street. He angles the scope downwards, checks his watch. Three minutes.

One thing to be said about this Nathaniel, he certainly is prompt. No sooner do the numbers on his watch reflect that half an hour has gone by than the front door cracks open. Bartimaeus readies his finger on the trigger, peers through the lens, and waits for his intended target to appear.

Nathaniel finally walks out, and had Bartimaeus been taking a sip of water at that very instant, he’s certain he would have spat it out in surprise. Because, holy shit, this is a _kid_. He expected a wizened geezer wrapped in a padded dressing gown, taking slow, shuffling steps in a pair of fluffy bedroom slippers. He did not expect to see a young man with a shock of black hair, moving with all the vigour of youth as he makes his way to the papers stacked neatly at the base of the front steps, shiny dress shoes gliding easily across the marble.

Bartimaeus watches him with a detached sort of fascination as his mind begins to race. He suspects that his mouth might have dropped open in shock. He can’t think of a single reason—aside from the irrationally early hours the boy keeps—that would warrant putting a hit on someone this young. And for a fee that high as well. He must have well and truly ticked the wrong person off.

The sharp sound of a bird crying out jolts him back into the present. But it’s too late. By the time he returns to his senses and looks through the scope once more, it’s only to see the front door swinging shut as Nathaniel disappears behind it, the steel knocker flying off its hinges at the impact.

He missed his mark. He has never, ever missed a mark.

“Goddammit,” he says to the gargoyle nearest him.

The gargoyle offers nothing in response. Pity. Bartimaeus could do with some serious words of consolation right about now.

—

He decides to take matters into his own hands and set up a second hit. Unfortunately for him, Nathaniel’s brief morning routine also marks the end of Faquarl’s notes, an unfavourable by-product of his style of assassination involving luring his targets to him rather than the other way around.

Bartimaeus rifles through his pack for a handgun and scales down the side of the building. He lands on the pavement just in time to catch Nathaniel hurry out onto the street, a long black cloak trailing after him despite the muggy early morning air. He maintains a respectable distance as he tails him, eyes always trained on his target in spite of the influx of commuters, all sporting identical bedraggled and bleary expressions, none moving with as intense a purpose as the boy in front of him.

He still cannot fathom why someone would want this kid dead. Maybe it’s the criminally tight trousers. Or the fact that he seems to be fond of stuffing lacy handkerchiefs into his breast pocket like a Victorian nobleman.

Loathe as he is to admit it, he’s quite curious as well. He supposes there’s a first time for everything.

Nathaniel rounds a corner and Bartimaeus pauses in his tracks at the sight of a small coffee shop. The wooden sign hanging above the front door spells out PINN’S COFFEE in chalk lettering. Bartimaeus steers clear of the glass windows and loiters by the side of the road, observes as Nathaniel places an order with routine familiarity and engages in what looks to be a rather tiresome conversation with a short, pale man who is practically tripping over his own two feet in his haste to attend to him.

Huh. The idea that Nathaniel may actually be a famous personality had never occurred to him. Sure, his usual targets are often famous in their own right, albeit for more nefarious reasons. Being hired to take out England’s latest celebrity heartthrob or other holds a bit less of an appeal when you’ve dispatched gang leaders and mobsters.

Then again, none of those other gigs had ever paid as much, either.

The barista passes Nathaniel his drink, and he’s off again, walking at a brisk pace that Bartimaeus struggles to match in his desire to remain inconspicuous. Though it does seem as if all his efforts have been for nothing, seeing as Nathaniel has hardly spared a glance at anything other than what is directly in front of him ever since he left his residence.

Bartimaeus had been so focused on keeping Nathaniel in his line of sight that he almost forgets to take note of his surroundings. This is essentially the first rule of Assassination 101, but sue him, it’s not as if this morning has gone in any way like he had planned. He had wanted a quick kill and an easy buck, but instead he’s stuck following a child through the congested streets of London, all the way to the… His train of thought fades away as he glances up at the massive steel and glass structure towering over him. Oh, all the way to the Home Office.

He lets out a gusty sigh. Make that strike three for things that have it out for him today. Because while Bartimaeus has made a career out of forcing his way into underground dungeons and secret hideouts, he also does not believe in taking unnecessary risks. And that involves breaking into a place that has enough added security measures to make even a guy like him stop and think.

From his spot on the pavement, he can pinpoint around nine low-grade surveillance cameras and detects the faint red glow that tells of a number of hidden high-tech ones as well. He’s careful to keep his head down as he dodges the roving security guards, trying to maintain his composure as he struggles on his next move.

There is no way he’s telling Queezle about his disaster of a morning. He doesn’t feel up to being subjected to a lengthy lecture, and, frankly, he doesn’t want to admit he missed a mark. Bartimaeus is a pretty competent assassin if he says so himself. He nearly managed to sneak a bunch of poisoned grapes into a Neo-Nazi leader’s fruit basket before he received a last minute order to abort the mission. He doesn’t care how Faquarl tells it. He most certainly was not almost caught.

The easiest course of action is obviously calling it a day and returning to the rooftop tomorrow, ready to take Nathaniel out as originally intended. But Bartimaeus is nothing if not stubborn, and though he would never admit it aloud, this assignment has already taken on a life of its own, one that he’s determined to see through to the end.

Besides, it’s almost insulting, an assassin of his level of skill and intelligence, reduced to the simple politics of shoot-and-flee. No, he’s going to earn that fee fair and square.

Right. The next step is to gather more intel. Bartimaeus prefers to devote time to study his marks before he goes in for the kill. Experience has taught him that habits can be the most lethal. Especially the habits people don’t think about until they’ve stepped into the bathroom for their nightly eight-fifteen showers, only to find the tip of a knife pressed against their necks. He can already tell Nathaniel is all routine and ordered structure, so set in his ways that he would hardly think to deviate from the well-worn path he’s chosen for himself.

He stops and lifts his gaze. Lost in his thoughts, he’s somehow made it back to the coffee shop from earlier. Bartimaeus takes in the elegant furnishings, the potted plants curling over the windowsill, the spartan menu board illuminated by industrial lights. It is exactly the kind of pompous place a boy like Nathaniel would gravitate towards. From the street, he spots the eager barista, wiping down the countertop as if his life depends on it.

Bartimaeus glances across the road, to a newly opened shop sporting all sorts of tourist paraphernalia. For the first time, he lets his mouth curl into a grin. He’s got an idea.

—

Ten minutes later, a man saunters into Pinn’s Coffee, the bell on top of the front door jingling merrily to signal his arrival. His garish Hawaiian-print top is thrown open to reveal a white I ♥️ London T-shirt. A camera swings jauntily from the strap around his neck. His bright orange flip-flops echo noisily across the black-and-white tiled floor as he walks to the front counter. The very caricature of a tourist.

“Well, ain’t this place somethin’,” the man exclaims in an exaggerated Southern drawl. He makes a show of surveying the shop from behind his dark sunglasses, as if minimalistic décor and mason jars are the height of interior design. “We sure don’t get no nice places like these back home.”

The barista, who is standing close enough for Bartimaeus to read his name tag as Simpkin, lets out a haughty sniff. “Yes,” he says in a strangely high-pitched voice. “Pinn’s Coffee is the premier establishment for serving the finest artisanal coffee in the city, dare I say, the whole of the United Kingdom.”

It takes all of Bartimaeus’ professional capacity not to roll his eyes. To like what you did for a living is one thing, but this fellow appears to be on the fast track to acting as if he has discovered the cure for a rare disease. Still, all the more reason to take the piss out of him. “Is that so?” He raises a brow. “What do y’all have for decaf ‘round these parts?”

The vein that jumps from Simpkin’s temple is almost enough to distract Bartimaeus from the unflattering shade of puce his skin turns at the question. “Decaf?” he echoes, aghast. He chokes out the word like it has personally offended him. “Mr. Pinn imports only the finest arabica beans this side of England! Something I’m positive your ghastly American franchises have never even heard of. He trained me in the art of roasting the beans myself. I have also had the honour of serving some of London’s most well-known personalities. Just before you came in, I had the pleasure of brewing coffee for the Foreign Secretary, Ms. Helen Malbindi.”

Bartimaeus whistles lowly. “Gee, this place must be a real fancy one. You got any other celebrities who come in here? I promised my wife I’d try to get a picture with the Queen.”

“I once made coffee for Quentin Makepeace, the playwright,” Simpkin adds proudly. “He prefers his coffee with two sugars and I was even permitted to ask for an autograph. It is among my most prized possessions.” Bartimaeus suppresses a grimace. Makepeace is famous among the West End circles for producing plays as awful as they are horrendously boring. He can only imagine what sort of things a man like Simpkin might be into.

“Is that it?” Bartimaeus fakes a yawn. “Making coffee for a bunch of people I ain’t ever heard of once in a while doesn’t really seem like the achievement y’all make it out to be. I got a feeling the Starbucks two blocks over gets more customers than this.”

Simpkin draws himself up to his full height. Despite the indignation radiating off him, this doesn’t amount to much. “The utter cheek! I’ll have you know that one of our regular, yes, _regular_, customers is none other than Nathaniel Underwood, the youngest Minister of State this country has ever seen.”

Bartimaeus feels a rush of triumph run through him. At last he’s getting somewhere. “How often does this guy come in?”

“He stops by every morning on his way to the office,” Simpkin replies, clearly pleased with himself. His voice drops down to a conspiratorial whisper. “Sometimes, he even waves at me as he passes by on his walk home. He claims our coffee increases his productivity.”

“I’m sure he does,” Bartimaeus says, already mapping out a place for him to take position in the alley next to Pinn’s that Nathaniel will have to cut through on his route back. He turns to Simpkin. “I’d like to try this Nathaniel’s order. Since it seems to be your special offer and such.”

Simpkin regards him suspiciously, but nonetheless sets about preparing his drink. Once presented to him in an ornate mug, Bartimaeus takes to one of the small circular tables next to the window. The plants, he notices at once, are fake.

Bartimaeus is what Queezle calls a traditional assassin and what Faquarl likes to call a snob. The reason being that he prefers to gather his information the old-fashioned way rather than relying on the ease and accessibility of technology. But faced with the unrelenting hours that are sure to stretch out in front of him as he waits for night to fall, he pulls out the decoy mobile he brings around purely for _Candy Crush_ and types in, _Nathaniel Underwood_.

Unsurprisingly, there is a vast amount of content on the youngest Minister of State the world has ever seen. There are endless photographs of the serious-looking boy, standing amidst the likes of the top politicians in the country. A brief feature makes mention of his ascent from assistant to Julius Tallow, former Permanent Secretary of the Home Office, to Minister for Security, all within two years of his graduation from university. The articles, while numerous, all boil down to the same stark facts, nothing of his personal life or even the specifics of his achievements. Call him a skeptic, but Bartimaeus has the strangest inkling that all of it is deliberate.

It’s nearing nine when he finally excuses himself and lopes out of the shop, throwing Simpkin an upbeat, “So long, partner!” as he goes. He tosses his disguise into a nearby bin and plants himself in the spot he’d picked out, obscured by long, dark shadows. He’s willing to bet that someone as ambitious as Nathaniel seems to be would hardly waste time taking a more circuitous, albeit safer and better lit, path home. Bartimaeus can feel the weight of his handgun pressed securely to his side as he waits.

Minutes later, Simpkin’s cheerful, “Good evening, Mr. Underwood!” floats into the night, alerting Bartimaeus to his target’s approach. He presses himself against the brick wall, listens as a series of quick footsteps draw closer to his hiding place. Underneath the glow of a street light, Bartimaeus gets his first fleeting view of Nathaniel. The bags that ring his eyes are prominent. The leather briefcase he carries is stuffed to bursting with paperwork. More than that, he looks like an overly tired kid who has bitten off more than he can chew.

Once more, Bartimaeus finds himself wondering just what exactly this boy could have accomplished to earn the title of Security Minister at the tender age of twenty-two. A position that also apparently comes with a death warrant for an outrageous sum of money. Really, if it were him, he would almost be flattered.

Nathaniel turns the corner and makes a beeline straight down the dark alley as predicted. Bartimaeus melts into the darkness, holds his breath as Nathaniel rushes past him. He readies himself, one finger clenches around the trigger—

_Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone. I’ll be waiting. All that’s left to do is run. You’ll be the prince and I’ll be the—_

Bartimaeus lets out a stream of profuse curses as he fumbles with the phone in his hand, trying in vain to search for the mute button as Queezle’s signature ringtone begins to blare at full volume. The sound slices into the stillness of the night and disrupts the relative calm of the alley. Once he’s able to get the damned thing under control, it’s too late. Nathaniel is gone.

His head falls back against the wall behind him with a _thunk_. “For fuck’s sake.”

—

Four in the morning has Bartimaeus wide awake and unable to keep still. His heart palpitates furiously, the aggressive amount of caffeine he had consumed churning its way through his bloodstream. It’s no wonder Simpkin claimed their coffee helped boost Nathaniel’s productivity. The boy probably slept even less than Dracula did.

On the plus side, this also gives him a lot more time to think over what has surely been the longest day of his entire life.

Dawn once again finds him perched on the rooftop of an ageing tower block, partially concealed by a cluster of gargoyle statues that sit leering and baring pointed teeth at him. He gets to work setting up the rifle Queezle had brought to his flat two nights before, and decides that he’s eager to get this entire business over with.

One minute to six-thirty. The air at this time of the day is cool and clear. A gentle breeze blows in from the north. He might not be a fan of the early morning, but there is a certain appeal in standing alone over the slumbering city, bright orange and streaks of blue filtering in through the clouds overhead. He sucks in a breath, closes his eyes. Just a second to rest before he returns to his mission…

_Plop_. The screech of a bird shakes Bartimaeus into awareness. He lurches into a sitting position like a zombie rising from the grave. A flock of pigeons sit innocently atop the stone gargoyles, heads cocked to one side like a group of curious bystanders. It takes him a second to place the slimy substance running down the side of his arm. Bird droppings. Fabulous.

Then it hits him. “Fuck!” 

He scrambles up to the rifle, looks through the lens. The streets, as silent as the grave when he first arrived, are now bustling and teeming with life and sound. He reaches for his phone, dread churning in his gut. It is exactly twelve minutes past two in the afternoon. He fell asleep and missed his chance. Again.

A young boy walking with his mother through Hyde Park swears he sees an entire flock of pigeons take to the sky, the resonating sound of a man’s voice yelling, “Fucking hell!” propelling them forward.

—

His fourth and fifth attempts go about as well as expected.

—

Queezle shoots him an unimpressed glance. “Say that again.”

“I’ve joined the British workforce,” Bartimaeus repeats cheerfully. He adjusts the straps of the beige cotton apron he’s wearing over a crisp white shirt and pressed black slacks. A brass name plate is pinned to his right breast pocket. “You _are_ always telling me to go out and get a real job.”

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Queezle replies. She shakes her head. “Explain to me why you’re going through all this trouble for a mark.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve developed an interest in your target.” Faquarl sneers at him from his spot on the sofa. “How very touching of you, Bartimaeus. I always knew you were too soft for this line of work.”

Bartimaeus turns to him. “I do hope you’re enjoying your house arrest,” he says with a smile. “Because I saw a feature on the restaurant a few days ago. It doesn’t seem as if the investigation is going to be over soon. Queezle will have to surgically remove your arse from that couch at the rate we’re going.”

Faquarl very eloquently flips him the bird and turns away. Bartimaeus can hear him mumble something about paranoid idiots under his breath. His smile widens. He’s won this round.

Then Queezle raises an eyebrow and says, “I happen to like his arse on my couch,” and the colour drains from his face. Maybe not. She crosses her arms and looks at him expectantly. “I’m still waiting for an answer.”

The idea had come to him after his disaster of a fifth attempt. For someone so young, Nathaniel does nothing a person of his age might do. There are no late nights out, no raucous parties. From what Bartimaeus observed, he gets up every morning at six, collects the paper, and is out on the street in that awful black coat before eight. The only other place he ever steps foot in aside from the office is Pinn’s Coffee. And that’s how Bartimaeus had come up with his current plan of action.

“Trust me on this.” Bartimaeus peers at his reflection in the mirror. “In case you two have forgotten, I spent almost ten months undercover as Khaba the Cruel’s right-hand man. Before I got the order to have him taken out.” Faquarl scoffs. “The point is, I’ve got a pretty stellar track record. Maybe I just want a bit of a challenge for once.”

But Queezle doesn’t budge. “You threw a handful of peanuts at a drug lord because you found out he had a severe nut allergy and you wanted to make it home in time for the series finale of _Game of Thrones_.”

“That was one time and we found out who Jon Snow’s mother was! Try and convince me that wasn’t worth every second.” Queezle rolls her eyes and Bartimaeus slings an arm around her shoulder. “Believe me. I know where I’m going with this.”

—

Bartimaeus first meets Nathaniel at eight-thirty on a Monday morning. It’s not the most auspicious of meetings.

Then again, when you’ve taken a job as a barista with the sole purpose of poisoning someone’s drink, he supposes that any sort of meeting is favourable to its end.

“What can I get for you today?” he asks once Nathaniel has stepped up to the register. In the daylight streaming in from the glass window fronting the street, the hollows of Nathaniel’s cheekbones are thrown into sharp focus, the creases around his eyes more prominent. Bartimaeus has a feeling his comparison to Dracula may not have been completely inaccurate.

“I’ll have the usual,” Nathaniel replies, distracted. “But add in an extra espresso shot.” He checks his bony wrist for the time.

“I see that we’re trying to wake ourselves up,” Bartimaeus comments with a raise of his brows. This order is a lot more potent than the one he had tried a week earlier. Enough to know the amount of caffeine in it will probably incapacitate him. “Truth be told, you do look as if you’ve crawled out of a crypt.”

It’s at this moment that Nathaniel seems to register who exactly he’s talking to. “Are you new? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before. What happened to Simpkin?”

“Ah. Simpkin.” Bartimaeus has a rather vivid mental picture of trying to wrestle a bound and gagged Simpkin onto a cargo ship headed for the Cayman Islands. “He, er, left. Said it was some sort of family emergency. I don’t think he’ll be returning soon.” Nathaniel attempts to say more, but Bartimaeus cuts him off. “I’ll be right back with your drink.” 

He turns around and removes a tiny glass vial from his back pocket. Before being recruited by the Academy, Faquarl trained as a chef. He dispatches his targets by poisoning their food while posing as the head cook at a number of high-end restaurants and inviting them to dine at the chef’s table. It was from his stash that Bartimaeus nicked the odourless poison designed to mimic the symptoms of a stroke within eight to twelve hours.

Bartimaeus slides the cup across the counter. “That’s one heart-stopping beverage for Edgar Allan Poe.” Literally.

“It’s Nathaniel,” he grits out, nostrils flared. Bartimaeus holds back a grin. He is going to have an incredibly grand time coming up with ways to get this kid riled up every morning. The stiffs back at the Home Office probably don’t have much in the way of humour. “Is insulting your patrons part of the customer service policy around here?

“Sorry, kid, but right now I’m the best you’ve got,” Bartimaeus says, wiping down the French press. “And I’m always one hundred percent genuinely myself. You want that coffee, the back chat comes with it. Free of charge, of course.”

“Simpkin always seemed to treat me with the utmost respect,” Nathaniel protests. His cheeks are tinged pink from the effort of holding in his composure. Bartimaeus has been told he has that effect on people.

“I’m surprised Simpkin found a way to speak with that stick wedged all the way up his arse,” Bartimaeus counters. He swears he notices Nathaniel’s mouth twitch into the approximation of a smile. “If you want a real customer service policy, I would suggest heading to the Starbucks two blocks down.”

Nathaniel immediately scoffs. “I detest Starbucks,” he says. The dark edge creeping into his tone has Bartimaeus wondering if he would find the bones of said baristas rotting under the floorboards of that immaculate townhouse. “They’ve got far too many notions on what is and isn’t acceptable behaviour for a coffee shop.”

Before he can stop himself, Bartimaeus blurts out, “I bet they tried to tell you that your trousers are too tight. I’ve got half a mind to phone the police for public indecency.”

Nathaniel draws himself up to his full height. This only serves to make him look more like a spindly matchstick balancing on two legs. “Thank you for the coffee.” He peers at the tag pinned to his apron. “And just what kind of name is Bartimaeus?”

“It’s my cover,” Bartimaeus replies baldly. “I’m actually an M15 agent sent to investigate the unusual amount of caffeine ingested by the general public. Would you care to give me a statement?”

Nathaniel presses his lips into a hard line. But the slight gleam to his eye has Bartimaeus thinking that maybe he’s finally playing along. “And I suppose you dispatch your targets by talking them to death,” he intones.

Bartimaeus bristles at that. It’s true that one of his past marks, an American crime lord, if he remembers correctly, had begged his captors to shoot him rather than be subjected to another one of Bartimaeus’ endless streams of chatter, the cause of death is still officially the bullet through his skull. Maybe. It is also possible that his head had exploded through sheer force of will, but Bartimaeus will never know now.

Before he can formulate a snappy comeback, a loud, brash voice interrupts their conversation. “Oi!” the man yells. Bartimaeus startles. He hadn’t noticed anyone else come in. “Enough with the flirting already. I’ve been waiting in line for nearly fifteen minutes!” The others chime in with a chorus of agreement.

“Listen, buddy, if you think this is flirting—” Bartimaeus attempts to reason. Luckily, the wrong sentiment seems to have dawned on Nathaniel if the way he glances at his watch and practically bolts from the shop is anything to go by.

Bartimaeus spends the rest of the morning swept into the whirlwind of ringing up orders, counting for change, and running back and forth into the kitchen to stock up on more homemade, gluten-free, all-around tasteless sandwiches and pastries. It’s only once the initial rush has died down and he finally has a chance to catch his breath does he realise that he should have probably poisoned the coffee _before_ giving it to Nathaniel. Christ.

—

It becomes somewhat of a routine. Every morning, Nathaniel walks into Pinn’s Coffee, orders a beverage strong enough to power a small nation, and attempts to stand his ground in the face of Bartimaeus and his numerous efforts to draw a reaction from him. Call it his civic duty, taking the kid’s shine down a bit.

Bartimaeus once refers to him as the Corpse Bride and Nathaniel’s features close off in annoyance. “But you would look so good in a dress!” Bartimaeus calls after him as he storms from the shop. “Those lacy cuffs of yours would make a fantastic accent piece!”

He would never admit it out loud, but taking the piss out of Nathaniel in the morning has become the highlight of his day. The boy is just so full of an inflated sense of self-importance that reminding him that he is, in fact, a kid always serves to get his blood pressure up a notch.

The problem comes when Nathaniel eventually grows used to the banter and stops rising to the bait. Calling him Beetlejuice only warrants a glare instead of an outright scowl. Edward Scissorhands simply gets a derisive snort. He even seems strangely respectful of Tim Burton.

That’s when Bartimaeus makes the decision to bring out the big guns.

—

“Morning,” Nathaniel says with a cursory nod.

“I think the NHS is ineffective,” Bartimaeus replies, already anticipating his response.

He’s not disappointed. Nathaniel instantly reels as if he’s been slapped. From the way he reacts, one would think Bartimaeus had made some kind of nasty comment about his mother. His eyes actually bug out of their sockets for a minute, before he remembers himself and schools his expression into a neutral glance. “And what might your basis for that be?”

Bartimaeus shrugs. “Because no healthcare system works. It’s a known fact. The principle of supply and demand, Natty boy. The more people need it, the more it slows down. Your buddies in the Parliament as just wasting their funds at this point.”

“And what of the people who _have_ benefitted from it?” Nathaniel demands. His coffee sits on the counter, untouched. “I’ll be the first to admit that our system may have its flaws, but it would be even more inhumane to have people pay for what should be a universal right.”

“That’s precisely it. _Should_ be a universal right.” Bartimaeus can feel himself growing rather involved. He can’t remember the last verbal sparring match he had with someone. Prison guards just aren’t as chatty as they used to be. “But time to face the facts here. It’s not. You get what you pay for. It’s how the world works.”

“It’s not how it should,” Nathaniel counters, cheeks burning with intensity. “We’ve managed to improve productivity by thirty percent in the last ten years—”

“We?” Bartimaeus echoes, amused. This kid. “What, were you a government consultant when you were in nursery school or something?”

“—and we are always finding ways to reach—” For a second there, Nathaniel seemed ready to get into it with hammer and tongs. His gaze had even begun to unfocus. But a short beep from his phone pulls him right back down to earth. Bartimaeus is almost disappointed. “I do not have time for this.”

Bartimaeus yells after his retreating form. “You know I’m right!” He wouldn’t be surprised if he never saw him again.

But Nathaniel is back the next day, posture tensed as if ready for a fight.

“What will it be today?” Bartimaeus asks him. “Are you planning to sleep at all in the next decade?”

“I’ll have the same as usual.” That’s a no to sleeping within the century, then. He stares at Bartimaeus expectantly. “I’m waiting for which one of your perverse opinions I’m going to be subjected to today.”

Bartimaeus grins. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you liked arguing with me,” he says, as he measures out coffee beans. “It must be a refreshing change, not having someone kiss your arse all the time.”

“I will admit there is some merit in hearing another person’s opinion,” Nathaniel concedes. He looks for all the world like the confession is being forced from him unwillingly. “If nothing else, at least this will prove I’m worthy of my position if I succeed in changing your mind.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Bartimaeus says. “I’m nothing if not a realist. You would be if you’ve seen as much of the world as I have. And I personally think that socialism fails in every country it’s been implemented in. You want my opinion? The government has no right interfering with private corporations.”

Once again, Nathaniel’s initial reaction is acting as if he’s been sucker-punched in the stomach. “And why do you think that?”

“That’s easy,” Bartimaeus replies. “Take a look at Hong Kong. No import taxes, no government intervention. Just a free market for everyone.”

Nathaniel digests this. “How are you certain that’s a system we should be taking example from?” He sounds genuinely curious.

“It’s a gut feeling,” Bartimaeus says, not really at a liberty to discuss that he was once ordered to protect a Hong Kong war criminal before he could be put on trial. He spent a whole forty-eight hours in a windowless underground bunker with the guy. Granted, he was about to be executed for crimes against humanity, but he did have a lot to share on why Hong Kong is the way it is.

But Nathaniel isn’t convinced. “The people have a duty to put their trust in those with the authority to—” 

“Spoken like a true man in power,” Bartimaeus cuts him off. “You reckon with all of the stories of corruption and fraud in the news these days, that the rest of the population are keen on having a bunch of rich government officials control how they spend their money? It’s easy for you to say because you’re one of them. Now think about the rest of us.”

“I am _not_ one of them,” Nathaniel says, tone laced with an emotion Bartimaeus can’t quite place. Strange that despite all the goading he’s done in the last few weeks, it’s this one harmless comment that strikes a nerve. “I, for one, implement programs that produce optimal results and benefit specific sectors.”

“Let me guess, that came from your campaign speech.” Bartimaeus props his chin on his first and shoots him an angelic smile. “Seems like you could use a few tips on how to sound less like a puppet on strings.”

Nathaniel is about to retort when a voice cries out, “Oh, Christ, not again!” It’s the same irate man from his first day on the job. “Listen, if you want to chat up the barista, do it after the morning rush. Some of us here have got places we need to be.”

It takes Nathaniel a minute to realise that the man is speaking to him. Literally. As in he had been standing in place with his mouth slightly agape like an idiot before he finally processed the situation at hand. Not the brightest one in the morning, that’s for sure.

“I was not—” he stammers. “I am an important—” It’s the first time Bartimaeus has seen him completely out of his depth. He thinks he would be more amused by this revelation if not for the line of customers staring daggers at him.

The man dismisses his pathetic effort to defend himself. “Yeah, yeah. You do what you like. Just get a move on already.”

Nathaniel nods stiffly. The expression he’s wearing is slightly shell-shocked. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bartimaeus.”

Once he’s gone, the man steps up to the register and rattles off his order. Bartimaeus gets to work, the vial of poison sitting untouched inside his pocket. He wonders if he should still bother pretending that he’s going to use it at some point.

—

“How is that plan of yours working out?” Queezle asks him, turning away from the television. The three of them are hunkered down in her living room, the background noise from the nightly news fading into a dull hum. It’s become a daily routine of theirs to tune in to the news, not to stay updated on recent events, but to make bets on which latest tragedy or international issue is the work of one of their fellow assassins.

“It’s going over pretty well,” Bartimaeus replies with a decisive nod. “The job should be finished before the week is done.”

Queezle looks skeptical, but mercifully holds back on any comments.

“And police are still searching for any suspects involved in what has been the third bombing attempt in London this month alone. Footage shows that the bomb was found and deactivated within the halls of Westminster Abbey by the Metropolitan Police,” a blonde reporter with an outdated haircut is saying. Onscreen, a bomb squad dressed in protective gear carefully fishes a canvas backpack out of the depths of the building. “Met Commissioner, Henry Duvall, is largely to thank for his team’s swift response…”

“Alright. Three terrorist attacks in London this past month,” Queezle repeats. “Place your bets.”

“Fritang, maybe?” Bartimaeus suggests. “The botched job is clearly indicative of his lack of brain cells. It’s a miracle they let him graduate with the rest of us.”

“He was sleeping with old Ramuthra,” Faquarl says in a monotone.

“He was definitely sleeping with Ramuthra,” Bartimaeus echoes in awe. The notion that Fritang had been desperate enough to fall into bed with their headmaster makes a lot more sense than the possibility that he managed to pass his final assessment. “I’m also willing to bet on Nouda. He was probably too occupied with recounting his glory days to ensure that the bomb was set to go off.”

But Queezle shakes her head. “I don’t think an assassin with Nouda’s level of experience would make such a rookie mistake,” she reasons. “This is the same man who fashioned a smoke bomb out of nothing but two salt and pepper shakers.”

“_If_ the stories are to be believed,” Bartimaeus deadpans. Their mentors at the Academy had regarded Nouda as some sort of assassin god. He had been in the class ten years before the three of them, and tales of his supposed cunning and skill were regularly passed down among the students. In his unbiased opinion, Bartimaeus feels his accomplishments have more merit.

“Of course the stories are true,” Faquarl says with a glare. He’s one of Nouda’s biggest fans. Bartimaeus recalls with sudden horror the poster of Nouda he had tacked onto the wall of their shared dorm room. He swears he once returned from class and caught Faquarl telling it about his day. “If this is actually Nouda’s doing, I don’t blame him. Those government jobs can be so tiresome.”

“At least he’s getting paid.” He leans over Queezle to poke Faquarl in the shoulder. “As opposed to _some_ people around here who let their girlf—Queezle do all the heavy lifting for them.”

“Go ahead and joke about not getting paid while I sit here waiting on my share for a job _you_ have yet to finish,” Faquarl counters, smooth as glass. Bartimaeus blinks at him, then returns his attention to the television in silence. Despite evidence to the contrary, he does know when to shut up.

“These attacks come almost one year after the arrests of former Minister for Security, Simon Lovelace, and former Permanent Secretary, Julius Tallow, for their involvement in what the United Nations has referred to as the biggest human trafficking scandal to have hit the European Union in recent years.” The newscaster’s image is replaced by a shaky camera video of a handsome, bookish man with square spectacles, attempting to shield his face as he is led in handcuffs to a police car. Behind him is a rotund, squat man whose skin has the strangest tint of yellow to it. “Lovelace was also known for his generous aid after the Underwood house fire that occurred…”

Bartimaeus speaks over the newscaster’s last sentence. “Simon Lovelace?” he repeats, forehead furrowed. He glances at Queezle. “I think you were hired to take out the first reporter who started investigating him.”

She holds a hand up to dismiss his claim. “Not important.”

“And lastly,” the woman continues, “police are still looking into the bizarre case at Le Biarritz, in what seems to be a deliberate act of poisoning done, after real estate mogul and heir to the Lime empire, Rufus Lime, was found dead by what at first appeared to be a heart attack, but is now being treated as a possible homicide. The hunt for the head chef, known only to his staff as Chef Hopkins, is still underway…”

Bartimaeus begins to applaud. “Well, I know who did _that_.” Faquarl throws the remote control at his head.

—

“You do actually eat something with this, right?” he asks Nathaniel later in the week. “Because I hate to break it to you, but you’re starting to look a bit like an orphan from one of those Charles Dickens novels.”

It’s true. From what he had observed in his time at the cafe, not to mention the brief reconnaissance nights he’s spent watching over Nathaniel’s townhouse, the kid seemed to subsist solely on a diet of self-assurance and reckless idealism. It made Bartimaeus question why anyone would do something as drastic as try and have the boy killed when he appeared to be doing a pretty decent job of it on his own.

Which Bartimaeus is supposed to be ensuring. Right.

“Work has been incredibly stressful this past month,” Nathaniel replies. For once, he isn’t even exaggerating. The hair on his head stands out in sharp directions, and Bartimaeus goes as far as to detect an actual crease on the pocket of his trousers. For shame!

Nathaniel’s mouth twists into a scowl when Bartimaeus makes it a point to tell him as much. But he does run a hand rather self-consciously down his lap. “I’ve had more important things to think about other than my wardrobe as of late.”

“That’s a first for you, I’m sure.” Bartimaeus leans against the counter and grins at him. “I’m still waiting for the day you realise your efforts in trying to make the world one shiny, happy place are all in vain.”

“I never claimed that the government was perfect,” Nathaniel snaps. A thoroughly haughty look comes over his features. “But in time, it will be better for everyone. The British government has the capacity to be a great one.” 

Bartimaeus snorts. “Good luck with that. I believe the history books have made a pretty clear case of the fact that the only thing those in power really care about, is making sure they stay in power.”

“And it is precisely due to the apathy of the people like you that those unfit to be in the government keep their positions while doing the bare minimum for the rest of the population.” Their faces are alarmingly close to each other now. As sallow and pathetic as he looks around ninety percent of the time, one notable thing about Nathaniel are his eyes: bright, sharp, and very, very blue.

Bartimaeus draws away from him. “I’ll leave you to your idealistic delusions,” he says, and Nathaniel bristles. But before he can get another word in, Bartimaeus reaches inside the glass case and grabs a sandwich wrapped in plastic off the top shelf. “Here. It’s on the house. Promise me you’ll eat it. I can’t guarantee it’ll taste like much, but at least your death won’t be traced back to all the caffeine you force me to give you every morning.”

Nathaniel blinks, stares down at the sandwich in confusion. “I—yes, okay.” He clears his throat. “Thank you. I should probably be on my way.”

Bartimaeus watches as he hurries out the door. Then it hits him that he should have encouraged his natural inclination towards starvation and brought about an inevitable death that would leave no discernible evidence back to him.

“Fuck,” he says into the silence. He is so fucked.

—

_It’s a love story, baby, just say ye—_

He snatches his phone and presses it to his ear. “Bartimaeus speaking.” The old woman whose order he was in the middle of taking makes a loud noise in protest.

“As if you didn’t know it was me,” Queezle says. “Is it done?”

“What?” Then it dawns on him. Right. The job he was supposed to have finished by now. “Um, about that…”

Queezle exhales slowly. “I had a feeling it would come to this.” The old woman is now making vague threats about leaving a one-star Yelp review. Bartimaeus continues to ignore her. “The word is that whoever ordered the hit on Nathaniel isn’t happy. If you don’t step up and do it, more assassins are going to come into the picture. As last I heard, Honorius is back in the country.”

She doesn’t elaborate. There’s no need to. Honorius is infamous among their circles for being as sadistic with his punishments as he is unhinged. Rumour has it that he spent years doing the dirty work for one of Britain’s previous Prime Ministers and was exiled to Siberia to avoid detection. Once there, he was captured by a group of rebels, and when he eventually managed to escape, he was never the same.

Bartimaeus may, on occasion, kill people for money, but he definitely isn’t cruel about it. There’s no need to torture someone further when they already know they’re done for. And the idea of Nathaniel being subjected to one of Honorius’ tricks makes something in his gut twist sharply. The boy may be annoying and strangely optimistic and annoying and overly ambitious and annoying, but he doesn’t deserve whatever Honorius deems a suitable punishment.

The glass door rattles in its frame as the old woman storms from the shop in a rage. Bartimaeus swallows down the sudden tightness that lodges itself in his throat. “No, I got it. I just need to get a bit more creative than usual.”

—

Which is how he ends up breaking into Nathaniel’s townhouse.

The lock on the front door is almost painfully easy to open. Bartimaeus clucks his tongue and makes a mental note to somehow insert the importance of having some sense of self-preservation into his next conversation with Nathaniel. Maybe throw in the number of a notable locksmith while he’s at it. Then he remembers that, oh, right, if this works, there isn’t supposed to _be_ a next time.

The front hall is dark and musty, a clear sign of the house’s only occupant spending most of his time in the office or on the upper floors. Bartimaeus sets his foot down on the plush carpet and adjusts the straps of his backpack. Inside are a handgun, a length of rope, two knives, a chain, and another one of Faquarl’s lethal concoctions. He’s not taking any chances this time around.

Though he does a quick sweep of the hall for any surveillance equipment, he isn’t surprised to find none. Seriously, the boy really needs to have some sort of protective instinct ingrained in him. Anyone could just waltz inside and kill him. Case in point: Bartimaeus. All the same, he takes care to move slowly through the corridor in case Nathaniel has any state-of-the-art security measures secretly installed.

He’s made it a habit not to underestimate people and their capacity for protecting their homes, no matter how unassuming they might come off at first. He learned the hard way that looks can be deceiving. One memorable mission had him chased out of a mark’s countryside estate by his grandmother wielding a wooden cane and commandeering their eighty street cats. He’d been coughing out orange fur for weeks afterwards.

The minimal furnishing of the sitting room is reminiscent of his own. And while the rug underneath his boots is obviously Persian and worth a fortune, other than a fireplace framed by a stone mantle, a long sofa, a mahogany coffee table, and a couple of plush armchairs, there really isn’t much in the way of decoration. Not that he’s entirely sure what he expected from the interior of Nathaniel’s home. Probably a huge Union Jack emblazoned on the wall. Or a couple of framed portraits of Devereaux, the Prime Minister.

He begins to map out the different paths that lead upstairs and into the study he knows Nathaniel spends most of his nights in. But it’s only once he heads in the direction of the main staircase is he altered to the fact that something is not right. The air around him has gone still. The hair at the back of his neck prickles in the telltale manner a million years of evolution have equipped human beings with into letting them know that they’re being watched.

The light flicks on at the same moment Bartimaeus swivels around to find the barrel of a gun pointed at his head.

“Don’t fucking move,” the girl says. The weapon in her hand turns with an audible _click_.

—

Bartimaeus has a feeling he looks a lot like a baby deer tangled up in some hunter’s trap right about now. The comparison only doubles in certainty when Nathaniel ambles into the living room with his briefcase, notices him standing in the middle being held hostage by a mysterious girl, and calmly remarks, “Oh, so you did find your way inside,” with the nonchalant air of, well, Bartimaeus himself.

“Told you he would,” the girl replies. She’s probably a year or two older than Nathaniel, her grey eyes trained on his face with a sort of calculated intensity. Her dark hair falls past her shoulders, one side tucked behind an ear with the careless gesture of someone who has too much on her plate to bother with superficial concerns.

In short, the precise opposite of Nathaniel and everything he stands for.

“Um.” It’s at this moment that Bartimaeus regains the ability to force sound from his mouth. His hand twitches at his side, ready to whip into his pack and make a grab for his own gun. Nathaniel should be easy to overtake, and while the girl does seem competent with a gun, he’s willing to bet his technique is adept enough to incapacitate her as well. But for some strange reason, he’s more curious into seeing this through.

Besides, it’s not as if she’s shot him yet, either.

“We were wondering when you’d try breaking in,” the girl says. There’s a bulky black messenger bag slung across her body, the sort people use to carry laptops around in. “It took quite a bit longer than expected, but here you are.”

This is what finally breaks Bartimaeus out of his shock-induced stillness. He rounds on Nathaniel, affronted. “Wait, you knew?” Despite the almost comical role reversal here, he actually feels betrayed. “You knew who I was this whole time?”

But Nathaniel just shrugs, the absolute bastard. “Put the gun down, Kitty. I doubt he’s going to do anything after what you have to show him.”

The girl—Kitty—shoots him a warning glare as she does, daring him to try anything funny. And God help him, it genuinely serves to rattle him a little. She reaches into her bag and brings out two photographs. With deliberate slowness, she lays them down on the coffee table in between them. One is a captured image of Bartimaeus outside the Home Office, head ducked like he’s trying to avoid being seen. The other is a close up shot of him waiting on the roof of the tower block, crouched beside his rifle.

“Not so much how you expected the night to turn out, is it?” Kitty asks him, obviously proud of the way she’s managed to render Bartimaeus speechless. As she should be, to be completely honest. He can’t remember the last time he had the rug pulled out from under him this fast. 

Bartimaeus examines the printed evidence staring up at him. “How did you get this?”

Kitty pats the messenger bag resting against her hip. “I’m good at breaking into things,” she says, and it dawns on him just what exactly this girl’s specialty is. “You’d be surprised at how easy the surveillance cameras on the street are to hack. Maybe you should mention that to your boss, Nathaniel.”

Nathaniel shakes his head. “Whitwell has too much on her plate to have to deal with the likes of a renegade hacker,” he answers. And then he does the strangest thing. He smiles. Not a feeble, half-assed smile, but a full-blown grin that instantly transforms him from a sulky young man into a charming government official. The expression on his face can only be described as _fond_. 

This is entirely too much for Bartimaeus to handle. “Nat, I can’t believe—so you really knew this whole time?” he demands. 

“We knew they would send someone after me eventually,” he says. There’s a hint of satisfaction in his tone, like being on someone’s hit list is a personal achievement and not a huge tragedy. “It was only a matter of figuring out when. But I wasn’t truly tipped off until a few months ago, when I received an invite in the mail to the chef’s table at Le Biarritz.”

“Eight sudden deaths among well-known public figures with no reported health issues, and the only real link is that each person’s last meal happened to be at that restaurant,” Kitty adds. “It was a dead giveaway.” 

Bartimaeus makes a mental note to tell Faquarl to consider a change in career. Then again, considering the conversation he’s having right now, it would probably be in his best interest to do the same.

Nathaniel glances at Bartimaeus. “Though, I wasn’t completely sure until, well, I met you.”

Despite the tense atmosphere, Bartimaeus allows his mouth to get the better of him. Which is, frankly, the story of his life. “I think that’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” he says. “Nat, I had no idea you felt like this.”

Nathaniel glares at him. But Bartimaeus swears the back of his neck has gone pink. “I only meant that you already knew my coffee order. And seeing as I had just met you, it was a definite sign that someone had been sent to tail me.”

Bartimaeus curses internally. So much for his efforts at undercover work. “But why indulge me?” he asks.

Kitty swings her bag off her shoulder and settles herself down on the sofa like she owns the place. Beside her, Nathaniel sits perched on the edge of the cushion, like he’s afraid to get his suit wrinkled. “Because,” she starts, “now that all our cards are on the table—literally in this case—you can help us.”

Bartimaeus blinks. He has no idea when his life took such a drastic turn. It probably started around the time he decided to become an assassin in the first place, because who takes having a good aim and pretty decent stamina and thinks, _I’m going to kill people for money_ rather than, _I should join competitive archery_.

“No one told me this was an initiation into the Mickey Mouse Club,” Bartimaeus quips. But all the same, he takes a seat on one of the armchairs. Bargaining for your life while on your feet can be quite exhausting. “What’s in it for me?”

“We won’t turn you in to the authorities,” Kitty offers at once. 

“And what makes you so certain you’ll get that chance?” Bartimaeus challenges. “I could still kill the two of you right now with both of my eyes closed.”

To his surprise, Kitty smirks at him, like she’s enjoying a joke he hasn’t cottoned on to yet. “Well, for starters, you had nearly three months worth of chances to kill Nathaniel and you didn’t,” she points out. “Second.” She retrieves yet another stack of photographs from her bag. “Bartimaeus, right?” She doesn’t wait for him to respond before she continues. “Strange that you should go by your actual name in this case. You’re known by several others, depending on the place.” The topmost photo is a still of him from his time in Taiwan, a dark hood pulled over his head. “Of course, you weren’t easy to track down. You’re wanted in maybe seven countries, and I’m sure the Hong Kong triad would be very interested to find the man who wiped out their leaders.”

Bartimaeus regards her, and a foreign sensation washes over him. Almost like he’s…impressed. “Your girlfriend is a formidable woman,” he tells Nathaniel. “Have to admit, I didn’t think expect this from a boy like you, swanning around in your fancy suits.”

A strangled choking sound rises from Nathaniel’s throat. His cheeks morph into varying shades of puce as he sputters like a fish out of water. “She’s not—Kitty isn’t—”

“I don’t fancy posh boys,” Kitty replies. Bartimaeus feels his respect for her soar. Subtle threats to his life aside, he’s beginning to really like this girl.

“Alright, so you know my history,” Bartimaeus says. “Congratulations and all that, but you still haven’t told me why I should bother helping you in whatever crusade you’ve got going on.”

“That’s the funny thing,” Kitty says, suddenly thoughtful. “In all the research I did on you, the one pattern that became apparent is the fact that you only kill—for lack of a better term—bad guys. Drug lords, human traffickers, mobsters, burgeoning dictators. There’s only one death of a civilian recorded at your hands, and I have reason to believe it was the unintentional result of you trying to save his life.”

At this, Bartimaeus gazes down at his hands, examines his fingernails with alarming intensity. Ptolemy had been the old woman’s grandson, visiting her estate for the summer. Bartimaeus had gone undercover as a groundskeeper, and despite being sent there to kill Ptolemy’s cousin, had managed to develop a bond with the boy. He had been running back for his nan’s favourite orange tabby when the lorry hit. Bartimaeus donated a portion of his fee to the local shelter afterwards.

“An assassin with a conscience,” Kitty declares, “is just what we need.”

“I do not have a conscience!” Bartimaeus exclaims. “I’ve murdered a man in cold blood while he was at dinner with his family. I’ve wiped out an entire council of triad members without blinking an eye. I’ve—”

“That man was a cartel leader who abused both his wife and kids, and do I even need to go into what the triads are known for? Face it, like it or not, you give a shit,” Kitty cuts in. “And if you decide that you don’t, or if an accident befalls either one of us sooner or later, all these”—she gestures to the printouts of his face—“will be uploaded onto a government server where you’ll be broadcasted on every country’s most wanted list, regardless if you’ve ever stepped foot there. So, take your pick.”

The only thing he can think is thank God neither Queezle nor Faquarl are here to witness this. He would never live the embarrassment down. “Fine,” he concedes. “I know when I’ve been backed into a corner. What do you need?”

For a second, Nathaniel and Kitty trade uncertain glances, as if they hadn’t actually planned for him to agree to their proposal. Then Kitty leans forward. “What do you know about the recent string of terrorist attacks?”

“That they’re happening?” The stare Nathaniel fixes him with is nothing short of unimpressed. “So sue me, Nat. I don’t need to watch the news when I have you to break it down for me.”

Kitty deftly steers the conversation back to its original subject. “Three foiled bombing attempts in the last month, all in historical or otherwise sacred locations. But we have good reason to believe they’re being staged.”

This causes Bartimaeus to pause, and a faint flicker of interest stirs within him. “How so?”

Nathaniel opens his briefcase, and produces what appears to be a crime scene photo taken of the bomb that was found in Westminster Abbey. A wax seal on the right corner has the image marked as classified information.

“Why, Nathaniel, I never would have guessed that you had it in you to break the rules like this,” Bartimaeus comments, unable to help himself.

For the first time, Nathaniel simply ignores him. “Here, take a look at the diagram of the bomb that was planted and decide for yourself.”

Bartimaeus studies the image. From the outset, it seems to be nothing more than the make of a standard pipe bomb. One meant to go off once the flap of the backpack had been pulled open, putting pressure on the material in order to trigger an explosion. But upon closer inspection…

“The ends are completely sealed off,” Bartimaeus notes. His eyes scan the photo once again to be sure. “This was never set to explode at all.”

“Precisely,” Kitty says. “True, the pressure buildup was dangerous enough to warrant the reaction it got. But we highly doubt the buildings were in any real danger of an explosion. And if you get the chance to examine the other two bombs that were found, all have the exact same flaws in their designs. Too deliberate to be considered an accident.”

Nathaniel nods. “There’s also the fact that in all cases, no suspects have been sighted or even pointed at. No terrorist organisation is stepping forward to take credit for the attacks. No one suspicious had even been seen around the time when the bombs were discovered. To add to this, all three bombs were conveniently found by members of the Met.”

Bartimaeus frowns. “But what’s the end goal here?” he asks. “Are you telling me you think someone is deliberately staging a terrorist attack on London just to spread fear?” He delivers his last question with a hint of derision in his voice. They simply don’t make evil geniuses like they used to. 

Nathaniel shakes his head in disgust. “Spread fear, or maybe searching for a way to rise to power. These attacks are being done to cause chaos among the Cabinet members. Whitwell has already received orders to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. With no help from Duvall.”

“Not to mention, someone has had it out for Nathaniel ever since he exposed Lovelace a year ago,” Kitty says.

Wait a second. “That was you?” Bartimaeus feels his eyebrows rise into his hairline.

“It was both of us,” Nathaniel clarifies. “I couldn’t have done it without Kitty.”

“What happened?” Bartimaeus asks. Nathaniel’s face has taken on a dark undertone, the shadows around his eyes giving his features the likeness of a skeleton.

Nathaniel is silent for a moment, deciding how best to proceed. “Do you know anything about the Underwood house fire?” he finally asks.

“What, the house fire out in Highgate a couple of years ago?” Nathaniel nods, and then it hits him. “Oh, don’t tell me…”

“My adoptive parents,” Nathaniel muses, vision glazed over with a past Bartimaeus can’t see. “Arthur was an under-secretary in the Home Office. By no means was he a high-ranking official, but I suppose he was close enough to see everything that went on in the department. And then he found out what Lovelace was doing, and like the fool he always was, threatened him with exposure.”

Bartimaeus whistles lowly. “I’m going to assume that didn’t end very well.”

Nathaniel glowers at him. “Lovelace showed up at the house pretending to have seen the error of his ways, prattling on about how he was going to turn himself in. A few hours after he left, that’s when the fire broke out. I was away in Scotland for university and didn’t find out until the early morning. But by then, it was far too late for anyone inside.”

Oh. This is definitely some heavy stuff that Bartimaeus hadn’t anticipated. “And now you’re avenging your adoptive father by following in his footsteps. I’m, er, sure he would be very proud of you.”

“What?” Nathaniel shakes his head. “No, not him. Arthur was an arse on his best day, but even he had morals, I suppose. No, it was just that his wife, Martha…”

“Martha?” Bartimaeus interrupts. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re actually Batman?”

Kitty snorts in amusement. Nathaniel throws him a withering look. “Would you let me finish?” Bartimaeus mimes zipping his mouth shut. “I got on the next available train, but as I mentioned, it was too late. The next morning, Simon Lovelace turned up at the hotel I was staying in. He was surrounded by a group of reporters, talking to them about his promise to take me into the department once I graduated. It was a bribe, essentially.”

“A bribe you still took,” Bartimaeus points out.

“I had to!” Nathaniel cries. Had they been standing up, Bartimaeus suspects he’d have accompanied this statement with a childish stamp of his foot. “If I was to get my revenge in any way, I had to bide my time. I never did manage to unearth what exactly Arthur threatened Lovelace with, but I knew it wasn’t going to be a simple matter finding it. That’s when I met Kitty.”

Kitty tilts forward and regards him curiously. “Have you ever heard of _The Resistance_?” 

Bartimaeus racks his brain. “That was the joke newsletter on all the Parliament members that had been circulating online a while back, right?” Kitty’s smile widens. “That was your work?”

“Like I said, I’m good at breaking into things,” she says. “It started off with picking locks, but I eventually turned my talents towards breaking into firewalls and disabling softwares. It also helped that I was harbouring a grudge of my own.”

“The two of you have certainly taken on a much darker aura than I imagined,” Bartimaeus says. “What did Lovelace do to you?”

“No, not Lovelace. The man he was arrested with. Julius Tallow. My friend Jakob and I were crossing the street when he came barreling at us out of nowhere. I was thrown across the road but he hit Jakob straight on. Drunk driving. Jakob has been paralysed from the waist down ever since,” she explains, heat creeping into her words. “My parents warned me to forget about it. But, idealistic idiot that I was, I thought I could take him to court and win.”

“And I bet that went swimmingly,” Bartimaeus supplies.

Kitty rolls her eyes. “Let’s just say, I left with more debt than I came in with. So I got my day job at the British Library, where I spent many hours in silence learning how to code and hack into systems. The first one I got into was Carl Mortensen’s Facebook. It was from his private messages that I learned about his bladder problem. This made me realise what else I could find, if I kept digging hard enough. So I created _The Resistance_.”

“My first assignment was actually to find out who was behind the website and put a stop to it,” Nathaniel says. “Not so much a matter of national importance, but none of the other ministers wanted to admit they were petty enough to be bothered by a few of their personal secrets being leaked online. It took a while, but I eventually tracked her down.”

“You should have seen him walk into the library, wearing his posh coat with his hair all slicked back from his face,” Kitty says, jabbing a thumb at Nathaniel. “I thought he was one of Tallow’s lackeys sent to arrest me.”

“She almost threw her computer at my head,” Nathaniel adds with a mournful expression. “I only barely had time to prove that I was on her side. So we made a deal. She would shut down _The Resistance_, let everyone think I had done my job and put a stop to it. And in return, I would give her unrestricted access to the private files of every single person in elected office.”

“In the end, it was a lot easier than we expected,” Kitty says. “Lovelace used his work computer to transfer funds to the offshore account I traced all the way to a small town called Sóskút. It was Tallow who primarily communicated with the ring.”

“I discreetly brought the proof to Whitwell, and the entire fiasco was dealt with. The only thing I requested for was that my name not be mentioned. There’s still so much left for me to uncover, and if people found out that I was involved, they would be out for me,” Nathaniel finishes.

“And that answers maybe fifteen of my questions about you,” Bartimaeus remarks. “Well, that was a nice bit of storytelling and all, but I think the fact that I’m sitting here in front of you means someone is definitely aware of what you’re doing.”

“Exactly. Which is why you’re going to help us figure out who that is, and what is going on,” Kitty says. “And if you do, all this”—she sweeps her hand out at the incriminating evidence on the table—“will be wiped from every server I’m capable of breaking into. As far as the world will be concerned, you’ve got a clean slate.” She grins at him. “What do you say?”

Bartimaeus sighs, once again wondering how on earth his life fell so far apart. “I suppose I don’t really have much of a choice here, do I?” He surveys the two people seated across him. “What’s our game plan?”

—

“I have to say, when you were selling me this fancy plan of yours about ridding the world of corruption and becoming a liberator of the oppressed, I’ll admit that I anticipated something a bit more elaborate than you having me keep my day job,” Bartimaeus states, when the next week finds him standing behind the counter at Pinn’s Coffee, ready to begin his usual shift. “Seriously, Nat, I thought you would at least dress me up as your assistant, give me a part in this worthy of my abilities.”

Nathaniel shoots him a dry stare. “I already have an assistant, and I assure you that Piper is more competent than you could ever pretend to be,” he replies. “Give me my drink.” Bartimaeus hands it over. He takes a small sip and instantly looks more human. “Besides, I can’t have you following me around the office. Never mind that your side comments would probably warrant a violent reaction from most of the senior officials. Right now, you cross paths with all sorts of people in this place. Maybe you’ll meet someone who will be able to help us.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure the bloke who comes in twice a day just to spike his coffee with vodka is really going to help move your cause along,” Bartimaeus intones. But Nathaniel has already gone. “Great.”

Though he had complained at first, he does get swept into his usual routine of ringing up orders, retrieving fresh deliveries from the back area, and lugging trays of bland muffins from the kitchen into the shop. He tries his best to keep up a steady stream of chatter with some of the regulars, but most are uninterested or overbearingly polite. This makes him think wistfully of Nathaniel and the ease in which he gets riled up. He wishes more people were prone to such hilarious displays of emotion.

Late in the afternoon, the bell chimes and a tall blonde woman strides into the shop, fair skin and wide blue eyes set off by the waves of golden hair that frame a heart-shaped face. She saunters up to the register, places a hand on her hip, and loudly blows out the bubblegum she had been in the middle of chewing.

Bartimaeus fixes her with his most winning smile. “What can I get for you today?”

The woman assesses the menu board behind him. “Yeah, what have you got that’s good in here?” she asks, and Bartimaeus resists the urge to wince. Her grating nasal voice would put even Fran Fine to shame.

“I _have_ heard that Pinn’s Coffee is known for its coffee,” Bartimaeus replies, without a single trace of irony in his tone. “But that could have also just been a rumour.”

Sadly, his attempt at levity falls ridiculously flat. The woman clutches a hand to her chest with all the theatrics of a soap opera star. “Coffee?” she repeats. “I can’t have coffee! I’ve got an audition in the morning, you idiot!” Well, that explains things. It’s only then that he notices the sheaf of paper in her other hand. “Not to mention, Quentin Makepeace has just announced a huge casting call for his new play set for next month. I’m giving up all caffeine until then. What do you have for tea?”

Bartimaeus blinks. “But tea also has—never mind.” His hand twitches slightly. While it is true that he does not see the point in killing innocent civilians and passerby without due cause, he might also draw the line at being called an idiot. “We have Earl Grey, peppermint, lemon—”

“Alright, I’ll have the Earl Grey,” the woman says. While she digs into the depths of a baby pink tote bag for her wallet, Bartimaeus looks over the script she had set down on the counter. **_The Swans of Araby_ by Quentin Makepeace** is printed in bold letters across the first page. A bright yellow flyer attached to the script invites all to the open audition being held at the London Coliseum at nine o’clock in a month’s time.

Bartimaeus brings out the strainer and sets about preparing her order. “Quentin Makepeace,” he starts, in an attempt to engage in conversation. “The reviews of his last play weren’t very good, I heard.”

The woman lets out a dismissive snort. “Please. Makepeace is a genius,” she declares. “He’s a true artist. I wouldn’t expect a barista like you to have any sort of knowledge on the fine arts.”

“I’m not sure if genius is the word I’d use. But he’s definitely something.” Bartimaeus places a red teacup and matching pot onto one of the glass trays. “Here’s your drink.”

The woman pulls the string of chewing gum out of her mouth and drops it on the counter. “Get rid of that, would you?”

Bartimaeus watches her walk off, insides churning with a sensation akin to rage. Absolutely appalling behaviour. And right on his freshly cleaned surface as well. Did she have any idea how long it had taken him to perfect the ratio of cleaning fluid with—oh, God, he’s gone and grown attached to this place after all. He needs to do something drastic.

He pushes a saucer to the floor on purpose.

—

One night catches him sitting alone at a seedy bar downtown, nursing a whiskey on the rocks. The television overhead is turned on to the nightly news, and he half-listens to a newscaster drone on and on about the increase in tobacco rates due to inflation or some other bureaucratic nonsense.

His phone buzzes. He glances briefly at the screen, then sets it facedown on the tabletop. He wouldn’t say he’s outright _avoiding_ Queezle and Faquarl per se. Well, Queezle at the very least. Despite years of being forced together in the Academy, Bartimaeus is still convinced that the more he steers clear of Faquarl, the better. But in any case, he has been doing a pretty decent job of ignoring their persistent questions on their group chat, as well as their invitations to Queezle’s for a lively game of Guess That Assassin.

It’s just that, well, he hasn’t really gotten around to letting them know that he’s teamed up with a self-taught hacker and the boy he was hired to kill, on what is essentially a mission designed to achieve the precise opposite of everything his current occupation stands for. Then again, he hasn’t really been able to rationalise it much to himself, either.

It would probably be easiest to pin the blame on Faquarl for this one.

The bartender notices him staring intensely at the screen. “This country’s gone right to shit,” he says. Bartimaeus startles. He had actually been in the middle of deciding between Jabor and Shubit as the possible culprits for a recent bank robbery in Berlin. Though the massive hole left in the building’s facade has Jabor’s sloppy work written all over it. “All these terrorist activities are making me nervous to even leave the house. You’d do best to take care out there.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Bartimaeus replies, waves his glass around for a refill. He decides it would be in his best interest not to mention that he knows eight different methods of killing someone with a breadknife, and four different ways to kill someone with _bread_. It would surprise people how often he’s had to get creative over the years. To this day, that mission had been the bloodiest battle to ever take place in a kitchen.

The bartender is pouring his drink when a sudden blare coming from the TV causes him to jump, liquid splashing onto the wooden bar top and sprinkling Bartimaeus’ forearm with amber droplets. The bright red banner that flashes across the screen announces the imminent arrival of a breaking news story. Around the bar, all the patrons have turned their attention to the television in anticipation.

Everyone except for Bartimaeus, that is. He’s still too occupied with trying to wipe the whiskey residue off the sleeve of his leather jacket. Behind him, the entire room has exploded into a whirlwind of curious whispers and nervous speculation.

“Oh, I do hope this is to announce that they’ve caught the people behind the attacks,” one woman says to her companion.

“I wouldn’t trust anything that Duvall says. I heard he was in on Lovelace and Tallow’s plans the entire time,” a man tells his wife.

And, alarmingly, “Nathaniel Underwood is so cute,” a mousy university student sighs. Bartimaeus shudders in place.

Through the babble of conversation, Bartimaeus only manages to pick up on a few details. An attempted stabbing in a residential area of London. At the back of his mind, he wonders who Faquarl and Queezle are placing their bets on. Obviously has to be one of the newer recruits. Stabbing is an unbearably cheap method of dispatching a target. People just don’t put value into the creativity of a kill like they used to.

That’s when he hears it. The sound of a nasal voice so unpleasant, it would probably find a way to weave itself into his nightmares.

Bartimaeus lifts his head to look at the screen. It’s definitely the same woman from the coffee shop, but her blonde hair has been replaced by a synthetic brown wig. Mascara runs down her pale cheeks as she sobs with open abandon in front of the cameras. But though the skin around her eyes is puffy with tears, her gaze is oddly clear. A reporter thrusts a microphone at her, and she clutches it to her chest like a lifeline.

“I was walking home from the shop, and a man just came out of nowhere and attacked me!” she laments, breaking into another round of noisy sobs.

“Were you able to get a good look at your assailant?” the reporter prompts. “Anything that could help the police find the people behind the recent string of attacks?”

“No, it was much too dark,” the woman replies. She glances right into the camera and adds, “But I’m so grateful to the Metropolitan Police for coming to my aid straightaway. London is in good hands with them around.” She delivers her last sentence with the poise of a beauty queen reading off cue cards.

Bartimaeus stops listening. Something nefarious is clearly afoot. While it could simply be a coincidence that this same woman really is the victim of a random attack, the chance of a woman he knows to be an actress, suddenly being featured on the news in order to thank the police, is almost a little too clear-cut for his skeptical mind. And then there’s the wig business, which is a sure indication she did not want to be recognised.

“That poor woman,” the bartender tuts. “She looks a lot like that actress you see in the soaps, doesn’t she?”

Before he’s even fully aware of it, Bartimaeus sets a few bills down on the table and dashes out into the dark.

—

Which is how he ends up attempting to break into Nathaniel’s townhouse for the second time.

Attempt being the operative word here. Because no sooner does he reach the top of the marble steps than the front door bursts open and Nathaniel charges out into the night, moving with the brisk efficiency of a man on a mission.

Or, he tries to. Because he also walks straight into Bartimaeus and very nearly tumbles down the stairs from the force of their collision. It’s only a lucky thing that Bartimaeus has quick reflexes and is able to catch him just in time to avoid having his head bashed on the concrete.

Nathaniel stares up at him in confusion. “Bartimaeus?” His minor brush with death has left his normally perfectly groomed hair sticking out in odd tufts across his forehead. “What are you doing here?”

Bartimaeus grins down at him. “Miss me, Nat?” And it’s only somehow then that they both realise Bartimaeus is still holding onto him, the two of them posed like a pair of ballroom dancers doing a dip. Nathaniel immediately straightens up with a pointed cough. Bartimaeus shuffles away and directs his gaze towards the empty street.

“Er, right.” Bartimaeus clears his throat. “Are you going to tell me where you’re running off to in such a hurry?” he asks him. “Is there a midnight sale on mirrors that you’re afraid of missing?”

Nathaniel’s features morph into a sour expression. “I definitely did not miss this,” he mutters under his breath. “No, there’s been an emergency at work. A woman—”

“Is this about the stabbing incident?” Bartimaeus interrupts. “Because I’ve got good reason to believe there may be more to that story than meets the eye.”

At his words, Nathaniel turns to him. There is a familiar gleam of alert readiness in his eye, calculating and eager. “What have you found out?”

Before Bartimaeus has the chance to speak, a black town car rolls to a stop in front of them. Nathaniel lets out a soft curse. “Whitwell has ordered me to oversee the police investigation. I was on my way to the crime scene when you intercepted me.” He glances between the car and Bartimaeus and back, then seems to come to a decision. “I suppose you’ll have to tell me about it on the drive there.”

—

Bartimaeus fills Nathaniel in as much as he can on the short journey. By the time they’re nearing their destination, Nathaniel is rambling with something close to maniacal energy.

“This is not a coincidence,” he says for the fourth time. He’s also talking to himself more than to Bartimaeus at this point. “You’ve provided us with the first real link to our theory. But we still need to come up with more concrete evidence. Perhaps I can sneak Kitty into Scotland Yard?”

“Okay, I’m going to stop you right there,” Bartimaeus jumps in. “Because unless you want Kitty behind bars for the next twenty years, we’re going to have to think of a more foolproof way to figure all this out.”

The use of “we” is not lost on Bartimaeus. And neither is it on Nathaniel, if the look he gives him is anything to go by. He blinks slowly, as if coming out of a trance. “Yes, well. Thank you, I suppose, for bringing me this information. I…appreciate it,” he says. He pronounces it slowly, like he’s never spoken the word before in his life. 

He probably hasn’t, if the manner in which he is avoiding Bartimaeus’ gaze is any sign.

“Er, you got it, Natty boy,” Bartimaeus replies with all the smoothness of a baby deer learning to stand for the first time. It’s also possible he has no idea what to do with the sudden degree of respect that has sprung up between them.

Thankfully, it is at this moment that the car comes to a sudden stop. Bartimaeus steps out first, and the two of them make their way over to the area swarming with a mix of police personnel and reporters. A section of the pavement is encircled by yellow police tape, the patch of concrete illuminated by the street lights that hang above it.

“This is official government business, so you must be as inconspicuous as possible,” Nathaniel tells him. “You won’t be allowed inside the crime scene, but stay around the perimeter and inform me of any suspicious activity.”

“I think I know how crime scenes work. After all, I’ve been the cause of enough of them,” Bartimaeus points out. “Speaking of suspicious activity. Do those sideburns count?” He gestures at a tall, broad man dressed in a dark grey jacket, pleated trousers tucked into sturdy black boots. His bushy brown facial hair obscures most of his face, giving him the untoward likeness of a savage wolf. “Because I can assure you that sideburns have not been in fashion since the seventies. If they ever were.”

“That’s Henry Duvall, the Met Commissioner, you fool,” Nathaniel hisses. But it’s too late. Duvall has already taken notice and is striding towards them. The expression he’s wearing is one of intense mistrust.

“Underwood,” Duvall starts. He says his name like he’s trying his best to spit it out. “May I know what you think you’re doing here? This is sanctioned police business.”

Nathaniel rolls his shoulders back and straightens his posture. It occurs to Bartimaeus that this is the first time he’s seen him act like the important member of the British government he always claims to be. “Ms. Whitwell has instructed me to oversee your investigation, sir,” he explains in an even tone. Bartimaeus notes that Duvall’s features have hardened significantly. “I’d like to offer my assistance in this matter, so that we can catch the terrorist sect behind this.”

“There is no ‘we’ in this, Underwood. The police have is perfectly under control,” Duvall replies. His teeth are clenched together. “I don’t need your intervention at my crime scene. We will take care of this, you best be sure.”

Nathaniel doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course, sir,” he responds blandly. “Please be assured that I have the utmost faith in your department’s capabilities.” There is definitely a slight tinge of sarcasm in there. This kid, honestly. “Since that’s the case, I was hoping to be allowed to speak to the victim.”

Duvall waves this aside. “There’s no need for that. She has undergone a massive trauma and was sent home to rest.”

But Nathaniel, the stubborn idiot that he is, doesn’t budge. “Then at least let me review the transcript of her statement. I’m most interested to see if she was able to get a good view of her attacker.”

“It was a dark night and there were no witnesses,” Duvall says. “The most we can do for now is wait for the group to resurface in the hope of catching them in the act.”

“Pardon me if I’m wrong, sir, but the crime scene appears to be well lit enough for the victim to have at least caught the smallest glimpse of her attacker.” Nathaniel points at the restricted area on the pavement, still brightly lit even at this late hour. “Perhaps I should have been the person to interrogate her. Then at least the investigation would move forward.” Oh, he’s a dead man. 

A vein jumps from Duvall’s left temple. “I don’t know who you think you are, boy,” he growls. “But I can assure you that I am on to you and I—” He pauses in his tracks when he notices Bartimaeus. “Who are you?” he barks. “Are you eavesdropping on a private conversation?”

“I believe I’ve got a right to stand here and worry about the safety and security of my neighbourhood,” Bartimaeus says, raising his hands into a defensive position. For some reason, he’s also speaking with a Liverpool accent. “I’m a longtime resident and concerned citizen, waiting to see some government action.”

Nathaniel lets out a groan. But Duvall narrows his eyes at him in appraisal. “Have we met before?”

“Certainly not, sir,” Bartimaeus replies. “I just moved to the city, I did.” 

“I thought you were a longtime resident,” Duvall states. His gaze is cold and calculating as he looks Bartimaeus over.

“Longtime resident of England is what I meant,” Bartimaeus backtracks. “I only just moved into a flat around here with my girlfriend a few weeks back. Lovely place, lots of natural light. Though the estate agent didn’t mention that we would be seeing crime on the streets. I’ve got half a mind to ask for my security deposit back.”

Duvall is still staring at him when Nathaniel chimes in. “Thank you for your concern, _sir_,” he says. Which essentially translates to, _Shut up_. “I will very gladly answer any questions you might have, as it seems I’m not needed here.” He turns to Duvall again. “Good night, sir.”

“Charming fellow,” Bartimaeus remarks once Duvall is out of earshot. “Really, I’d love to have him over for tea sometime.”

“I thought I told you to remain inconspicuous!” Nathaniel shakes his head. “Besides, he seemed to recognise you from somewhere.”

“Never seen the man before in my life,” Bartimaeus answers truthfully. “Trust me, those sideburns would be impossible to forget. And now that we’re on the topic of Duvall, you’re really digging your grave talking back to your superiors like that. That kind of cheek will get you killed, boy.”

Nathaniel raises his eyebrows pointedly at him. “By someone else, you mean?”

“Yes, precisely,” Bartimaeus says. “Though, I could probably still kill you right now. After what you said to Duvall, I doubt he would do much investigating.”

Nathaniel dismisses his statement. “We’ve been over this,” he says. “You kill me, and Kitty puts you on blast for all the people you’ve wronged to see. I may die quickly at your hands, but that’s nothing compared to what the triad will do to you. I hear they like taking body parts one at a time.”

“Oh?” Bartimaeus does his best to feign disinterest. “Well, I’ll have you know I’ve killed a dozen men in one go before. I could probably do it again.” He most certainly could not.

“It doesn’t matter,” Nathaniel says, returning their conversation to its original subject. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who noticed how Duvall grew defensive when I pointed out the flaws in his story. Whatever is at work here, he’s definitely involved.”

“Okay, but what are you going to do about it?” Bartimaeus challenges. “Despite what your precious Ms. Whitwell says, I highly doubt Duvall is going to let you anywhere near the victim. If she even is a victim.”

Nathaniel mulls it over. “I may not be able to,” he admits. “But you can. Find this woman and get answers from her. If she is as you say she is, then this is a step in the right direction.”

—

There’s a piece of paper taped to the front door of his flat when he returns.

**NOTICE OF EVICTION**

**THREE DAY NOTICE TO PAY RENT OR TO VACATE**

“Well, fuck me,” Bartimaeus says. The door remains sealed shut.

— 

****

**A$$A$$INS 💀💷🔪**  
Faquarl, Queezle, You  


**Bartimaeus**  
Looks like my flat has been compromised.  
1:28 ✔️✔️  
Photo  
1:28 ✔️✔️

  
**Faquarl**  
Lol, that sucks.  
1:28   


**Bartimaeus**  
Your eloquence never fails to  
astound me.  
1:29 ✔️✔️

  
**Faquarl**  
Suck my dick, Bartimaeus.  
1:29   


**Bartimaeus**  
That old comeback again, eh?  
1:29 ✔️✔️  
Careful, I'm starting to think you  
really want me to.  
1:30 ✔️✔️

  


**A$$A$$INS 💀💷🔪**  
Faquarl is typing...  
  
**Queezle**  
Settle down, children.  
1:31

Bart, do you want to stay at  
our place?  
1:31

**Bartimaeus**  
Voice Note (0:53)  
1:37 ✔️✔️

**Queezle**  
Did you really just send me a  
recording of you saying no in  
sixteen languages?  
1:37

**Bartimaeus**  
Don’t worry about me.  
2:05 ✔️✔️  
I’ll just move in with Nathaniel.  
2:05 ✔️✔️

  


**A$$A$$INS 💀💷🔪**  
Faquarl and Queezle are typing...  
  
**Queezle**  
WHAT?  
2:06

**Faquarl**  
I am never getting my money.  
2:06

—

Three days later, Nathaniel arrives home from the office to find Bartimaeus standing next to his front door, fiddling with a shiny metal contraption.

“Do I even want to know what you’re planning to do with that?” he intones. Bartimaeus shuts the lid on a keypad and deftly enters a series of numbers into the scanner attached to it. The screen glows bright green in assent and then shuts off.

“Oh, good, you’re back,” Bartimaeus says. He plants his hands on Nathaniel’s bony shoulders and steers him towards a small camera mounted on top of the device. “Stand here so I can enter you into the system.”

Nathaniel directs a slack-jawed, dull-eyed, vacant expression at the camera. A light flashes, and it scans his features with a soft hum. Once the light turns blue, Bartimaeus steps in front of another keypad and types in a few details.

“There, that’s finished.” He claps his hands together. “Now we’ll just have to get Kitty round so we can add her in as well.”

“Bartimaeus,” Nathaniel says, slowly losing patience. “What is this?”

“It’s a facial recognition lock that will open the door automatically for us,” Bartimaeus explains, gesturing to the silver metal box attached close to the doorbell. “There’s also a keypad here with a password we can give to guests for when they come over. Right now it’s _bartisthebest_, but we’ll be able to change it after a month.”

“And why are you installing a facial recognition lock on my front door?” Nathaniel asks him in a more measured tone, as if he’s afraid of what the answer might be.

“Hey, it’s not my fault that your idea of a decent security system is a faulty lock that doesn’t even put up much of a challenge to break into,” Bartimaeus replies. “Since I’m now living here, I’ve taken it upon myself to upgrade the security a bit. Let’s make it more difficult for the next assassin that swings by.”

Whatever Nathaniel had been expecting his answer to be, that clearly wasn’t it. “Excuse me?” he chokes out. “You are not moving in here.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Nat,” Bartimaeus returns. “Because I’ve been booted from my flat for not paying my rent on time.”

“Am I supposed to be surprised you can’t handle your own finances?” Nathaniel demands. His cheeks are turning an alarming shade of red. “How did I get dragged into this?”

“Because the money I was supposed to get from killing your ungrateful arse was this month’s rent,” Bartimaeus counters. “And the next six months’ rent after that, to be honest. You’d be surprised at how much it is, really. I’d be flattered. Just imagine, right now, I would be driving a Maserati and you’d be dead. It’s funny how life turns out sometimes.”

But Nathaniel just gapes at him, opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. Bartimaeus takes advantage of the temporary loss of his capacity for speech in order to direct him into the house. “Let’s discuss this over dinner. I noticed you didn’t have anything inside your fridge aside from energy drinks, so I took the liberty of going to the market. No need to thank me.”

Nathaniel continues to sputter incoherently, but he nonetheless accepts the steaming plate of food that is offered to him. Bartimaeus stands over him until he finishes the entire thing.


	2. come here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to the lovely [Maiden of the Moon](https://singacrossthemoon.tumblr.com/), whose overall support and enthusiasm in allowing me to finally ramble on about this series with someone motivated me enough to finish this mammoth of a chapter. 
> 
> I can only hope to one day be half the wordsmith you are.

So, Bartimaeus moves in. Not that it does much to change their relationship.

They bicker over whose turn it is to load the dishwasher, if Bartimaeus is allowed to store his collection of guns around the house, whether or not the fact that the Circle line is always out of order is a matter of national importance (yes, according to Bartimaeus).

They argue as Bartimaeus makes his way out the front door for his morning shift at Pinn’s Coffee, and again when Nathaniel comes in an hour and a half later for his usual order. Bartimaeus pokes fun at Nathaniel’s alarming obsession with grooming and personal hygiene. Nathaniel grumbles over how Bartimaeus prefers using his shower more than the one in what is now his bedroom.

“You have a rain shower, Nat,” Bartimaeus says by way of explanation every time Nathaniel tries to bring it up. “A rain shower. Besides, yours has got way better water pressure. You’d think a man of your status could afford to spruce up the guest bedrooms a little more.”

“Feel free to leave, then,” Nathaniel retorts. He stomps back into his personal study and slams the door.

“Struck a nerve there, did I?” Bartimaeus calls out after him.

All things considered, Nathaniel did own an ungodly amount of hair products. Standing under the spray, Bartimaeus surveys the multicoloured bottles arranged neatly on the glass shelves. He finds himself absentmindedly wondering how exactly one person could afford to use this much product, if he’d be able to pick out each individual scent if he buried his nose in Nathaniel’s hair, and, oh, maybe that last thought isn’t something to entertain while in the shower.

He swiftly directs his thoughts to a gruesome memory from his time spent undercover in Goa.

When he steps out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, Nathaniel is standing on the other side of the door. His arms are crossed and his features are pinched together in impatience.

Bartimaeus shakes water droplets from his hair. “All yours, buddy.” But Nathaniel doesn’t move. Instead, he’s watching Bartimaeus with a fixed stare, his pupils glazed over. “You look like you’re about to have a coronary. I’ll stop using your precious shampoo if it makes you feel better.” Just another one of the many ways he tries to annoy Nathaniel as much as possible. But strangely enough, aside from the one comment Nathaniel made the first time he’d done it, he doesn’t seem to mind too much.

“What?” Nathaniel snaps back into reality with a rather vicious shake of his head. “Er, no, I’ll just buy more.” He clears his throat. “Thank you.” The bathroom door rattles as it closes behind him.

He stops complaining about Bartimaeus using his shower after that.

—

One morning, Bartimaeus walks into Pinn’s Coffee for his shift, only to be greeted not by the familiar scent of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked bread, but by an attack from a wild animal. When he finally manages to push the offending being off, he discovers what jumped him is not a stray coyote that somehow wandered into Central London, but a raving mad Simpkin.

“You,” Simpkin hisses. He’s practically hopping in place as he spits out insults and threats. Bartimaeus notes that his lank hair has grown out to his shoulders, and he’s sporting a full beard of the same pale colour. His watery eyes are narrowed in abject hatred, light green standing out starkly in comparison to the tan of his skin. 

“Oh, well, don’t you look great. Loving the tan you got,” Bartimaeus says with faux-cheer. He mentally tabulates the distance between the lunatic in front of him and the nearest pastry knife. “Did you enjoy your holiday? I hear the islands are lovely at this time of the year.”

“Holiday?” Simpkin echoes in rage. “You attacked me and forced me onto a passenger ship! It took three days for the crew to even realise I was there!” 

“Now that is truly terrible customer service,” Bartimaeus replies, indignant on Simpkin’s behalf. “I just thought you needed a bit of a break, that’s all.” He punctuates this statement with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. 

And that’s when Simpkin lunges at him.

By all rights, trying to fend off a tiny, portly man with almost no muscle mass to speak of should have been an easy fight. A dull one even, especially considering some of the others he’s been pulled into in his day. But, well, Simpkin is _mad_, the anger fuelling his body to a point where he’s actually able to land a few decent punches. Bartimaeus eventually catches his arm and twists it behind his back, the two of them having moved closer to the front counter in their skirmish.

“Stop hitting me and I’ll let you go,” he offers. But when Simpkin does nothing more than thrash around like a rabid beast, Bartimaeus pushes him as far away as his strength will allow him to, leans over the counter, scoops up the most expensive coffee machine, and makes a beeline for the exit. The sign over the front door hangs at an odd angle, and several of the framed prints are scattered on the floor. Simpkin lets out a wail of fury, and Bartimaeus thinks maybe the long journey back to London has unhinged him after all.

Bartimaeus returns to Nathaniel’s townhouse and finds him still sitting in the kitchen, reading the day’s news.

“What are you doing back here?” Nathaniel asks from behind the pages. “And why are you holding a coffee machine?”

“Right, about that,” Bartimaeus starts, setting the device down on the marble countertop. “I may be officially out of a job. You also might want to try an alternate route home. But the good news is, you no longer have to spend ten pounds on an overpriced cup of coffee when I can make it for you right here.”

“What?” Nathaniel finally puts the paper down, and it’s only then that Bartimaeus gets a good look at him. “What did you do now?” 

But Bartimaeus just stares at him, too in shock to be offended by the boy’s assumption that whatever happened had been his fault. “What—what is that on your face?”

“Sorry?” Nathaniel blinks at him, the bright blue of his eyes magnified by huge black frames. “Oh, yes, I was prescribed reading glasses while still in university.”

And right now is when Bartimaeus should be chiming in with a sarcastic quip about the inherent dangers of reading under the covers. But what comes out of his mouth is a stilted, “You…wear glasses.” His brain is at a complete standstill. Sitting in front of him with his glasses on, Nathaniel looks young. Young and open and vulnerable in a manner that he doesn’t appear normally. Bartimaeus has no idea why this fact should twist his stomach into knots.

“I have contact lenses for everyday use,” Nathaniel explains, oblivious to the inner turmoil brewing within Bartimaeus. His stupid blue eyes are still magnified and piercing and trained on him. He suddenly feels exposed.

“Oh.” That makes sense. “Of course you do. Otherwise I would have seen those before. Right.” 

“Are you alright?” Nathaniel peers at him. “Because your behaviour is confusing me more than usual.”

“Is it?” His voice, when it emerges, is strangely high-pitched. Dear God, what is wrong with him? “No, it’s only that… Aren’t you going to be late for work?”

Nathaniel glances at the clock on the wall and curses under his breath. “You’re right. I need to get going.”

“Don’t forget your lunch,” Bartimaeus reminds him, referring to the packed brown bag sitting on one of the shelves next to the kitchen entrance. It didn’t take long for him to realise that Nathaniel was incapable of making anything except a meal that had to be defrosted, and seemed to have no personal preference for food altogether, since he’s only ever hungry for power or equality or whatever it is he fills his waking hours thinking of. The first few times, Bartimaeus literally had to shove the packed lunches into his hand before he left for his shift at Pinn’s Coffee. He’d gained the profuse gratitude of Nathaniel’s assistant, Ms. Piper, ever since.

When Nathaniel returns downstairs, he looks a lot more like his usual bratty and obnoxious self. This helps shake off the lingering residue of what must have been some kind of tropical disease he’d probably contracted from Simpkin during their brief scuffle. “I’ll see you later,” he says. “Make yourself useful while I’m gone.”

“Anything for you, Nat,” Bartimeus replies, with a roguish wink and an exaggerated flutter of his eyelashes. The second Nathaniel leaves, he lets out a sigh and slumps against the kitchen island. Add whatever the hell just went down to the growing list of things he can never, ever disclose to anyone.

—

“This is an interesting development,” Kitty comments one night. The three of them are sitting around Nathaniel’s—or, to be more precise, _their_—living room, drinking the cups of tea Bartimaeus had brought out. “Though, I can’t say this comes as too much of a surprise. Shall I wait for a wedding announcement to be sent in the mail?”

“It was a whirlwind romance.” Bartiameus beams at Nathaniel with a cheeky grin. “I guess you can say I really swept him off his feet.”

“Don’t mind him,” Nathaniel tells Kitty. The tips of his ears have gone slightly pink. “He was evicted from his flat because he refused to kill me, and somehow got it into his head that I owe him a place to stay.”

“You have enough space in here to adopt an entire commune of assassins,” Bartimaeus points out. It’s true. The townhouse is easily the most luxurious place he’s ever spent an extended amount of time in. And he once had a stint posing as a bellhop at a five-star resort in the Bahamas. It was a real tragedy when a surfing accident took out his intended mark before he could.

“Let’s go over the plan one more time,” Kitty says. She scans the layout of the London Coliseum spread out across the coffee table. The following day is the open audition for the _Swans of Araby_, and the only real chance they have of moving forward with their case. Ever since Nathaniel had shown up to the crime scene, things have been relatively quiet. This only serves to add to the growing feeling of something brewing on the horizon.

“There’s no need for that,” Bartimaeus reassures her. “It’s just a simple observation job. You’d be amazed at how much more tedious things I’ve done to get information.” One mission had him spend an entire night locked up in an aviary, on the lookout for a particular pigeon carrying the coordinates for his next mark’s holiday home. The informant had an unfortunate flair for the dramatic. Hence the carrier pigeon. “I should be out of there in no time.”

—

The London Coliseum is unusually busy for a Sunday morning. The theatre’s plush red chairs are almost at maximum capacity, filled with eager hopefuls streaming in from every part of the city, all vying for a chance to win a coveted role in Quentin Makepeace’s upcoming production. With one notable exception. 

Bartimaeus sits silently towards the back of the auditorium, doing his best to blend into the darkness, as he watches audition after audition, ranging from the most inane of background characters to the prized role of Amaryllis. Seated at the base of the majestic stage is the famed playwright himself, dressed in his signature green coat and embroidered trousers. Makepeace waves his excessively frilly cuffs around as he gestures for the next amateur actor to ascend the platform. 

Bartimaeus has been sitting in his seat since the ungodly hour of nine in the morning, and so far has yet to catch sight of the woman from the coffee shop. Though it is quite difficult to pick out anyone over the bobbing heads of all the people gathered together. If he didn’t know any better, he would almost believe the woman had really been the victim of a heinous crime and decided to lay low. If not for the wig she had been wearing…

“Our next hopeful is someone I’m sure may be familiar to a fair number of you,” Makepeace announces. His booming voice pulls Bartimaeus back into the present. “It’s quite an honour to have her here with us today, reading for the part of Amaryllis. Please join me in welcoming, Ms. Amanda Cathcart!”

The sound of unenthused clapping fills the space as Amanda Cathcart walks into view. And no surprises here, it’s the woman from the coffee shop herself. Her hair is back to its original blonde, and her face bears no traces of the minor cuts and bruises that Bartimaeus had noticed from her television interview. She’s all smiles as she takes her place, the energy radiating from her the precise opposite of what one would expect from a woman who had been involved in a traumatic event not a month before. 

Well, that settles it. Seems as if the boy’s theory that the recent terrorist attacks are being staged has a ring of truth to it. But the only question now is, to what end?

As Amanda Cathcart continues to wail and coo onstage, Bartimaeus attempts to sneak out of the main theatre in the hopes of accosting her. He has just emerged into a carpeted corridor, the ornate crystal chandeliers that hang above him sparkling in the mid-morning sun, when he’s approached by a stagehand. The man carries a clipboard and is speaking urgently into a headset.

“Sir, all those auditioning must wait inside until their names are called,” the stagehand says. It takes Bartimaeus a second to realise the man is addressing him.

“Me?” Bartimaeus asks, once he figures no one is going to magically appear behind him. “Sorry, you’ve made a mistake. I’m not here to—”

“Yes, I have him here,” the stagehand replies into his headset. He deftly ushers Bartimaeus towards a side door closest to the main stage.

“No, no, you’ve got the wrong man,” Bartimaeus attempts to protest. “I’m simply a patron of the arts.” But his words go unheard as he’s directed with impressive force back inside.

“Ah, here we are,” Makepeace says when he catches sight of them. “My assistant tells me you’ve been waiting since before nine! It only seems fair to let you audition for the part of Bertilak first. The early actor gets the role, I always say!” He ends this banal catchphrase with a hearty laugh.

Bartimaeus finds himself being forced to the middle of the vast platform, the harsh stage lights bearing down on him and reducing the audience members to blurred pinpricks of darkness. Makepeace sits directly below, his hands folded together as he assesses the reluctant man standing in front of him.

“Right, see, this is a mistake,” Bartimaeus starts. “I’m, er, really not in the proper headspace for an audition right now. I just wanted to, er, oversee the creative process and such.”

Makepeace raises his groomed eyebrows in surprise. “My good sir, there is no need to be shy! We are all friends in the theatre.” He glances down at the script next to him. “I think we shall start with act two, scene four,” he announces in a pleasant tone. “You may begin.”

One truly terrible audition later, Bartimaeus rushes out the Coliseum doors and into the bustling streets of the West End, swarming with tourists and passerby making the most of a rare sunny day. He had somehow been wrangled into doing his audition wearing one of the costume headpieces that Makepeace’s assistant had produced from the depths of backstage, and in his haste to depart, it still sits on top of his head.

Good Lord, that was traumatic. And another item on the ever-growing list of things he’ll be taking to the grave. This is all Nathaniel’s fault. He has no idea what he’s doing, taking orders from an infant like this. A part of him wants to march right over to that townhouse and strangle the life from the boy. Huh. Now there’s an appealing thought.

Before that notion devolves into an actual plan of action, he’s alerted to movement next to him. From one of the back doors, Amanda Cathcart steps out. A dark shawl is wrapped around her shoulders, obscuring most of her face. She peers around nervously. Upon determining that the coast is clear, she hurries off down the street.

Bartimaeus takes care to maintain a respectable distance even as he begins to follow her through a twisting maze of side streets. She eventually takes a sharp right turn into a deserted alley away from the hustle and bustle of the main road. He plants himself next to an overflowing rubbish bin, crouches down, and watches the proceedings unfold through the sliver of space in between the bin and the brick walls that surround them.

Waiting at the far end of the alley is a bearded man dressed in all black. A wide-brimmed hat sits atop his dark hair, like a prop straight out of a Western film. Amanda Cathcart slows down as she approaches him, moving with utmost caution. And it’s no wonder. The man is at least seven feet tall.

“Do you have it?” she asks him.

At first, the man doesn’t move. His hard eyes linger on the woman in front of him, appraising her slowly, like a serpent waiting for the best time to strike. Then he reaches into the depths of his coat and brings out a white envelope. Bartimaeus immediately notices the strange scars that criss-cross over the back of his hand. Amanda Cathcart takes the wad of cash and counts carefully. Her forehead furrows when she gets to the last bill.

“That’s it?” she demands. “We agreed on almost double this!”

A loaded silence follows her statement. The sort that usually precedes the sound of a gunshot. “Maybe he just wasn’t that impressed by your performance,” the man finally says. His voice is as cold and as sharp as a blade.

“I had the entire London eating out of the palm of my hand,” Amanda Cathcart protests furiously. Seems as if her apparent greed has outweighed her initial wariness of the bearded man. Those acting gigs of hers cannot be paying much if she’s desperate enough to argue with a mercenary like this. “Maybe I should sell my story elsewhere. See how much I get for telling the whole world the truth. Ask your boss what he thinks about _that_.” She lifts her chin in defiance.

Oh, this woman definitely has a death wish. An observation that’s not completely inaccurate, if the way the bearded man’s mouth tightens is any indication. As quick as a wink, he draws his hand back into his coat, and before Bartimaeus has the chance to blink, has the tip of a knife pressed into Amanda Cathcart’s side. She lets out a whimper as he pushes the blade forward.

“Would you like to repeat what you just said?” he asks her in a manner akin to discussing the day’s weather forecast. Amanda Cathcart shakes her head. Her cheeks have been leached of all colour. “I don’t think you need me to remind you what will happen should the truth ever come out.”

“No,” she croaks. The word is drenched in fear. “You don’t.”

“Excellent.” The bearded man withdraws his knife with a pleasant smile. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

Amanda Cathcart nods, for once at a loss for words. Bartimaeus can’t pretend he isn’t the tiniest bit elated to have been robbed of hearing that awful nasal voice for the last time. The bearded man watches her go, a thoughtful expression on his face. When it seems like he’s about to leave as well, he pauses in his tracks, looks straight at where Bartimaeus is hiding, observing the scene unfold in front of him, and says, “Get rid of him, boys,” before going on his way.

Bartimaeus jumps to his feet. Out of a hidden door that had been built into the wall, two massive men emerge. Both are particularly vicious-looking thugs. One has a hooked nose and beady eyes, reminiscent of an eagle. The other is broader across the arms and chest, with flared nostrils that remind Bartimaeus of a raging bull. 

“Now, gentlemen,” Bartimaeus starts, backing up slowly. “I assure you we don’t have to resort to violence here.”

“You were eavesdropping on a private conversation,” Eagle Eyes says. He cracks his knuckles. “Our boss isn’t too fond of having his personal business spied on. You’d understand.” 

“Eavesdropping? Bartimaeus repeats in a tone of faux-innocence. “Who said anything about eavesdropping? I’ll have you know that I enjoy hanging around rubbish. I was simply taking my daily stroll and happened to chance upon this conversation. Don’t worry, I didn’t understand any of it.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Bull Nostrils chimes in. “Because when we’re done with you, well, there won’t be nothing left of you.” He laughs, loud and brash, just like the animal he so closely resembles.

“I know that to your feeble minds, my death at your hands may seem like the only viable option,” Bartimaeus continues. “But I promise you, there’s nothing a good talking through can’t solve. Trust me, you don’t want to do this.”

The two men trade amused looks. “What are you going to do about it?” Eagle Eyes challenges. “Hit us with that frilly headdress?”

“I can make this painful for you,” Bartimaeus warns. As he talks, he scopes out the general layout of the alley. It’s long and not terribly wide, but still a fair distance from the nearest main road for anyone to notice the commotion. The bearded man had chosen his meeting place well. “Honestly. I’m trained in all sorts of martial arts, and I once killed a woman with only a loaf of bread. True story. And a rather fascinating one at that. If you’re interested in hearing it, perhaps we could have tea sometime. I make a pretty mean—”

“Would you just shut up!” Bull Nostrils bellows. Bartimaeus half-expects steam to come rushing out of his nose. “Don’t listen to him,” he tells Eagle Eyes. “The boss is going to be ticked off if we don’t get rid of this pest.”

Well, now they’ve just insulted him. “Pest?” Bartimaeus echoes. The bloody nerve! “Okay, you’ve done it. Don’t say I didn’t try to stop you.”

Both men rush at him, and Bartimaeus sighs. He’s definitely not getting paid enough for this. The two boneheads clench their meaty hands around his neck, only to find themselves grasping at empty air. A few yards away, Bartimaeus deftly lands on his feet. “Told you so,” he says, with the faintest lift of his eyebrows.

“Alright,” Eagle Eyes returns. He pulls something out of his back pocket. “Have it your way, then.” Bartimaeus glances at the revolver in his hand.

“Oh, come on, that’s hardly playing fair, is it?” he asks. “Are you seriously going to fire that thing in broad daylight? I know you can hardly comprehend—” Bartimaeus barely manages to dodge in time to avoid the bullet that pierces into the wall behind him. Plaster rains down and cakes his shoulders in a fine layer of white dust.

“I really hoped it wouldn’t have to come to this,” Bartimaeus says, and launches himself at them.

Though the two men have the advantage in numbers, their brains seem unable to grasp at a battle tactic other than the use of brute force and attacking from straight on. Bartimaeus delivers a well-aimed kick at Eagle Eyes that sends the gun flying in the opposite direction. As he makes a run for the fallen weapon, Bull Nostrils comes charging at him. Bartimaeus attempts to duck at the last minute, but Bull Nostrils manages to get his arms around his neck, holding him in a headlock. Out of sheer desperation, Bartimaeus slams his head back, and, oh, Christ, this man’s head must be made out of concrete. The impact sends Bull Nostrils springing away from him, one hand attempting to staunch the blood flowing from his nose. Bartimaeus gets to his feet, ears ringing from the force of their collision.

Eagle Eyes retrieves the gun and cocks it, fires round after round into the air. Bartimaeus twists, turns, and dives, doing his best to avoid the bullets raining down on him. He lands on his knees beside the dumpster, and with all the strength left he can muster, pushes it onto its side. What appears to be at least a month’s worth of garbage is unceremoniously dumped on the two buffoons. Like a scene straight out of a slapstick comedy, Eagle Eyes wobbles on the slush and bashes his head against the steel lid. This in turn causes him to crash right into Bull Nostrils, bringing them down with an almighty _thud_. The gun slides out of his limp hand and comes to rest at a triumphant Bartimaeus’ feet.

Bartimaeus waves the gun at them. “While this has been a real joy,” he says, surveying the groaning masses lying on the ground, “I sincerely hope we never cross paths again.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks out into the daylight.

—

“What on earth happened to you?” Nathaniel demands when Bartimaeus strolls into the kitchen. Kitty is there as well, sitting at the breakfast nook and working on something on her computer. “What is that on your head?” He wrinkles his nose. “And why do you smell like a London sewer?”

Bartimaeus falls onto one of the bar stools that surround the kitchen island. “You would not believe the morning I’ve had, Natty boy.”

He tells them everything minus his disastrous and impromptu audition, taking the liberty to sprinkle in a few of his own embellishments. Such as the number of guns involved. Or the height of the bearded man. By the time he’s finished, Nathaniel has straightened up in his seat, eyes wide and frantic. Kitty has her chin propped on her fist, regarding him with the utmost fascination. He can practically see the gears in her head turning.

“And you’ve really never met this bearded man before?” Nathaniel asks him, eyebrow raised.

Bartimaeus bristles, picking up on the undercurrent of skepticism woven into Nathaniel’s question. “And why would you think I’d know him?”

Nathaniel colours slightly at the scrutiny, but doesn’t back down. “He could be another assassin?” he offers. 

“Oh, and I guess you assume every cold-blooded killer out there is a close friend of mine,” Bartimaeus remarks dryly. “What, and I’m just protecting his identity from being found by your scrawny arse?”

“Alright, I only asked because you seem fond enough of your fellow assassins, those two you’re always texting,” Nathaniel replies, going on the defensive. “If I’d known you’d get so snippy about it, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Okay, first of all, I am not _fond_ of Faquarl,” Bartimaeus counters. “Second, don’t you think I would have offered up the information if I knew anything?” Nathaniel has risen to a standing position, and it’s only then that he realises he’s done the same. “Has it ever occurred to you that I’m just as committed into seeing this through if only to get rid of—”

“Amanda Cathcart.” Kitty’s placid statement cuts into their argument. Lucky thing she did, because Bartimaeus is sure he was about one more word away from getting into an actual sparring match with the boy. Which, frankly, would have been hilarious. “Oh, are you two finished?” she asks when she notices them staring at her.

Nathaniel walks over to her. “What have you found out?”

Kitty shakes her head. “Nothing conclusive. It’s just…” She trails off, forehead furrowed in thought. Amanda Cathcart’s email account is opened up on her computer screen. Lines of random letters and symbols are printed across the page, distorting the text into some kind of encrypted code.

“It’s blocked,” Nathaniel notes in a stunning display of insight. Bartimaeus attempts to piece together a pattern from the gibberish reflected in front of him.

“Her social media accounts are pretty standard, nothing in her private messages that would incriminate her,” Kitty explains, fingers flying across the keyboard as she speaks. “But then I found her website. She was contacted through the page for an ‘acting job’ with the promise of more details to be given out over email.” Kitty pulls up a baby pink website, the header spelling out the actress’ name in glittery letters. Two messages are displayed onscreen. One is from an anonymous sender, reaching out to her about a potential job. The other is Amanda Cathcart’s enthusiastic reply, followed by a flurry of heart emojis. She also provides her personal email address. “Getting into her account was easy enough, or so I thought. But this thread and its sender are buried beneath a firewall thicker than I’ve ever encountered.”

“That is definitely deliberate.” Nathaniel Underwood, back at it again with his prowess in the Department of Painfully Obvious Observations. “The bearded man?”

“Could be,” Kitty replies. “I only managed to get past the VPN blocking the IP address. But all this tells us is that the sender is from Central London, which doesn’t really amount to much. I can start working on getting through to the port, but it’ll definitely take me a while. Even then, there are no guarantees.”

Nathaniel visibly deflates. “I suppose we’re back to our usual course of action, then.”

“Keep looking and hope for a miraculous breakthrough?” Bartimaeus pipes up.

Kitty shoots him a wry smile. “You got it.”

—

Bartimaeus is sitting at the kitchen counter, looking through Nathaniel’s computer, when the locks on the front door whir to life, indicative of someone entering the house through use of the code. He instantly jumps to his feet, alert and somehow grateful for the temporary distraction. Snooping through the boy’s computer is hardly fascinating enough to warrant a reaction since the only things he reads are various news websites and the stock market. The only item of merit he’d come across was a suggestion for his most recent search item on Google, _How to tell someone_, but it seems as if he’d deleted it before he could finish that line of thought. Which is a real pity, but since Bartimaeus figures it would have been something like, _How to tell someone to get out of my house_, he thinks he’s better off not knowing.

Bartimaeus carefully presses himself against the wall and edges towards one of the drawers Nathaniel had allowed him to store some of his guns in. His mind is running at a mile a minute. He can’t think of a single other person who would have access to the entrance code. It’s not exactly like the guy is rolling in friends. Nathaniel could have been captured, and like the rat he is, named the assassin living in his house. Or the information could have been taken from him under the influence of torture. Soft footsteps echo along the tiled floor, moving closer to the kitchen. Bartimaeus has just about decided to make a lunge for it when the mysterious visitor walks into view.

“Oh!” the woman exclaims. Her light green eyes are wide behind the glasses perched elegantly at the bridge of a slim and freckled nose. Her short brown hair is neatly brushed behind her ears, and she’s dressed in a smart skirt and grey tweed jacket. “Did I startle you?”

“Er, no,” Bartimaeus replies, choosing not to mention that he was about four seconds away from blowing her brains out. He surreptitiously pushes the gun drawer closed with his forefinger and crosses his arms over his chest in what he hopes is a non-threatening manner. “Can I help you with something?”

“Yes, I’m very sorry to barge in like this. You must be Bartimaeus,” the woman says, beaming at him. “Mr. Underwood asked me to come here and retrieve his lunch. I believe he forgot to take it with him this morning, and he’s rather fond of your cooking.”

It takes Bartimaeus much longer than he cares to admit to realise that this must be Nathaniel’s assistant, the beloved Ms. Rebecca Piper. He’s barely had any real interaction with her aside from their brief exchanges over text, and even those were mostly her sending him updates on whether Nathaniel had eaten at all that day. It’s the strangest sense of camaraderie he’s ever felt with a virtual stranger.

“Ah, you must be the illustrious Ms. Piper,” Bartimaeus says smoothly. “Pardon me, but Nat certainly didn’t mention you weren’t a wrinkled old woman.”

Ms. Piper giggles, clearly used to this line of thinking. “Well, he certainly talks about you enough. I have to admit, I never thought I’d see the day he decided to settle down. But it’s definitely a welcome change. He’s been so focused on work in the year we’ve known each other, it’s nice for him to finally have a bit of romance!”

If Bartimaeus had in any way thought he had a handle on where this conversation was going, he’s now veered off the highway and is free falling into space. “What?”

“And when he told me you two had moved in together.” Ms. Piper sighs, oblivious to the way Bartimaeus’ mouth is hanging open like a loon. “I just wanted to say, I’m glad he has someone looking out for him. I worried about him sometimes, especially during the early months. But now he seems to be in much better spirits, especially at the office.” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yesterday, I even heard him laughing with one of the other senior members.”

Bartimaeus pauses in his tracks, blinks. “He was what?” He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Nathaniel laugh. The boy seems to be incapable of producing the sound. Not even when Bartimaeus is being his most cheeky as well, those jokes of his would have a stronger man in stitches, that’s for sure. “Sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong idea about—”

A tinny beep emanating from her pocket interrupts their conversation. Ms. Piper pulls out her mobile and glances down at the screen. “I should probably be on my way back. He’s due to be out of the Cabinet meeting in twenty minutes.” 

“Right, well, here you go.” Bartimaeus reaches for the brown bag sitting in its usual place and hands it to her. “Tell him, er, tell him I say hi.”

“Oh, I will,” Ms. Piper gushes, eyes lighting up with all the adoration of the world’s biggest fangirl. “I’m happy to have met you at long last. But I’m certain we’ll be seeing more of each other in the future!” With that, she departs with an honest-to-God wink.

—

Later that night, the two of them are in Nathaniel’s study, watching _Game of Thrones_. It probably shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise to Bartimaeus that Nathaniel had never seen it, and he’d instantly paid for cable on their television. They’re only three episodes into the first season, but Nathaniel has already declared his unswerving loyalty to House Stark, Ned in particular. Bartimaeus doesn’t have the heart to tell him.

“Are you aware that your assistant thinks I’m your boyfriend?” Bartimaeus blurts out, speaking over one of Tyrion’s drunken ruminations. He hasn’t been able to put the idea out of his mind. Bizarre as it is, it certainly explains a fair number of things. Such as the way Nathaniel’s housekeeper, Ms. Lutyens, always makes sure to loudly announce her presence before entering a room, as if she expects to stumble upon them in a compromising position.

“Excuse me?” Nathaniel grows rigid in place, the expression on his face oddly guarded. “Where did you get that idea?”

“Met her this morning when she came over to pick up your lunch,” Bartimaeus starts. “Charming woman, she’s just under the impression that you and I are, what the kids call, an item. Apparently she’s been chalking up your brand new sunny demeanour in the office to the softening effects of new love. She also told me she caught you laughing with one of your buddies from work yesterday.”

“That ‘buddy’ of mine was Clive Jenkins, Director of NaCTSO,” Nathaniel replies in a sour tone. “And I was simply trying to get him to give me access to Duvall’s files on the recent attacks.” At this, Bartimaeus almost grins. That’s more like the kid he knows and has reluctantly come to tolerate. “Besides, does it matter what other people think?” Nathaniel turns back to the television with a careless shrug. But his posture is oddly stiff, and there is definitely a slight flush to his cheeks. “We both know it’s not true, so there’s that.” His words leave no more room for further discussion.

“Yeah, okay,” Bartimaeus says, because as tactless as he can be sometimes, he does know when a conversation is closed.

The rest of the events play out, and Nathaniel grows more engrossed in the story. At one point, Bartmaeus notices his hand twitching as he listens to one of Ned’s lessons on the importance of duty and self-sacrifice. Probably itching to take notes for his next campaign speech.

“You know what this house needs?” Bartimaeus asks once he’s queued the next episode.

Nathaniel doesn’t even bother lifting his eyes from the screen. “No.”

“A _dog_.”

“_NO_.”

—

They name the corgi Ptolemy. 

Well, Bartimaeus does. Nathaniel spends the entire ride home from the pound muttering under his breath about how he doesn’t have the time to take care of a dog, how messy pets are in general, wonders how the hell he was even talked into such a ridiculous decision, and, no, that’s it, they are turning this cab around and taking him straight back.

Bartimaeus spends the entire ride home holding up the dog and cooing, “Come on, Nat. How can you say no to this face? Just look at his little face.”

A week is all it takes for the boy to crack. Then Bartimaeus catches him sitting on the living room floor with Ptolemy in his lap, lips twisted into the approximation of a smile. Bartimaeus secretly snaps a photo to send to Kitty, all the while thinking he might finally understand why it is people have things they stick around for.

—

One Friday evening has Nathaniel sitting at the desk in his study, poring over the files Rebecca—as she prefers to be known by the so-called significant other of her boss—delivered the day before. Bartimaeus is sprawled out on one of the leather couches, mindlessly flipping through the channels on the television and complaining endlessly of boredom.

“Seriously, Nat,” Bartimaeus stresses for the tenth time. “Just take a good look at yourself. The ripe old age of twenty-two and you’re already acting like you’re living off your pension.”

“I’m busy,” he replies with a haughty sniff. “And don’t raise your voice, you’ll wake the dog.”

Ptolemy is currently stretched across Nathaniel’s lap, asleep and snoring softly. Despite the extreme lengths Bartimaeus had undertaken in order to bring him home, he’d taken an instant liking to Nathaniel, the boy who once spent an entire hour moaning about the amount of fur that had stuck to one of his special suits. Bartimaeus has never felt such betrayal.

“It’s Friday night and we’re in the heart of Central London,” Bartimaeus points out. Again. “It would be an absolute crime not to go anywhere.”

“You go, then,” Nathaniel says, eyes glued to the chart in front of him. “I don’t ever recall ordering you to follow me about like a shadow.”

Bartimaeus raises an eyebrow at that. “Yeah, sure, and when another assassin comes swinging in here with a chain, what are you going to do about it?”

Nathaniel lets out an impatient huff. “I’m not completely useless at defending myself, you know.”

Bartimaeus ignores this, deciding that getting into another argument would be a waste of breath. “Honestly, you’re much too young to have left your partying days in university.”

“I didn’t go out much in university,” Nathaniel says in a monotone.

“What a shocker,” Bartimaeus answers with deliberate slowness. “Too busy plotting how to take down the Empire. Got it.”

Nathaniel finally turns to glare at him. “Yes.” He puffs himself up. Considering the fluffy corgi on his lap, this doesn’t do much in the way of intimidation. “And now I’m—”

“An important member of the British government,” Bartimaeus finishes for him. “And look how far that’s gotten you. Your closest friend exposes other people’s darkest secrets for sport and you live with an assassin that was hired to kill you.”

“At least one of those is by choice,” Nathaniel attempts to protest.

But Bartimaeus goes on as if he hadn’t spoken. “No, that’s it. Get up. I’m taking it upon myself to give you the full university experience.” His forehead wrinkles in thought. “Where do people go out nowadays?”

—

“Is this a hallucination?” Kitty’s mouth stretches into a pleased smile as she walks over to where they’re seated at the far end of the bar. “You never visit me here.”

“Believe me, it was against my will,” Nathaniel mutters, shooting a dark glare at Bartimaeus.

“It’s Friday night, Kitty,” Bartimaeus tells her. “This is the prime of our lives and we should be spending it in the best place London has to offer.” He takes in the Frog Inn’s faded wallpaper and outdated curtains, the dusty countertop and wooden shelves nearly sagging under the weight of the bottles lined against the wall. The entire bar has the simmering stale smell of cheap larger and cigarette smoke, emanating from the cluster of drunks seated around them. “Or something like that.”

“That would be Clara to you,” she says, with a pointed glance at the name plate pinned to her apron. _Clara Bell_ is scrawled onto the surface in blue marker.

“Clara?” Bartimaeus repeats in confusion. “I was under the impression that barmaids don’t usually go by aliases. Unless this is a different sort of bar.”

Kitty rolls her eyes. “No, but try having one of these freaks find your real name when you’ve worked enough shifts here as I have.” She nods in the direction of a haggard older man, casting her wary looks filled with a trace of wistfulness, sitting alone at the opposite side of the room. In spite of this, he makes no attempt to approach her.

Bartimaeus follows the line of her sight and frowns, having put the pieces together. “I could always kill him for you,” he offers.

“That’s sweet of you.” Kitty pats him on the arm. “But I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“She’s right,” Nathaniel chimes in. He’s focused on scanning the drinks list propped against a napkin holder on the table. “He once tried to follow her home and she knocked him into the gutter. Sent him right to A&E.”

Bartimaeus is suitably impressed. “Have you ever considered training as an assassin? Recruitment season at the Academy has just ended, but I can probably pull a few strings and get you enrolled by next fall.”

She snorts, but he detects a faint flush of pride that spreads across her cheeks. “Thank you, but I prefer to keep my business on the legitimate side.”

Bartimaeus tilts his head to one side. “Says the girl who is actively working to take down government officials.” 

Kitty grins at him loftily. “Let’s call it a moral grey area and agree to disagree, shall we? So, what can I get you two?”

“What do you have for wine?” Nathaniel asks at the same time Bartimaeus declares, “Two pints of your cheapest lager, please.”

“What?” Nathaniel is staring at him as if he’s just insulted the Prime Minister. Again. “The whole point of this little exercise is the give you an authentic university experience. No university student in their right mind would blow money on one of your pretentious French wines.”

“They did in my school,” Nathaniel mumbles under his breath, but he says no more on the subject. “Is this what you did in uni, then?”

“Sure, something like it.” While Bartimaeus never did go to a formal university, the secret parties at the Academy were mostly filled with contraband liquor that had been confiscated or otherwise stolen from other marks. One notable instance involved a particularly potent absinthe that he swears to this day had taken him to a parallel dimension.

“Here we are.” Kitty sets two overflowing pints down in front of them. “You kids have fun. I’ll be back later.”

Bartimaeus immediately takes a long swig, but Nathaniel just peers into the liquid like he’s trying to will it to reveal the answers to life’s mysteries to him. When he does finally bring the glass up to his mouth and takes a sip, he shudders in place. “You actually have the audacity to call this vile concoction lager?”

Bartimaeus ruffles his hair. “One day, Nat, I swear I will get you to stop being such a snob.”

Nathaniel scowls. “I am not a snob. I simply have an appreciation for the finer things in life.”

“You don’t even own a pair of trainers,” Bartimaeus points out. “Try running for your life and let’s see how far those pointy dress shoes of yours will get you.”

“These are perfectly comfortable, thank you,” Nathaniel replies. He nonetheless tucks his leather shoes further into the bar stool and out of view.

Bartimaeus’ expression turns contemplative. “You know, I’ve killed a lot of people like you. And you’d be surprised at how little any of those fancy possessions they own do for them at the end.”

Kitty appears from the side, carrying a tray laden with empty plates and dirty glasses. “Let’s try and keep the martial bickering to a minimum,” she announces. “Especially in public.” Her gaze darts to a businessman in a dark suit who is clearly listening in on their conversation, if the scandalised look on his features is any indication.

Bartimaeus swivels around in his seat. “Oh, don’t mind us,” he says in a breezy tone, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “We like to role play _James Bond_. Keeps things fresh in the bedroom.” He punctuates this statement with a leer and a salacious wink. The man turns beet red and moves away with a cough.

Bartimaeus returns his attention to Nathaniel and finds him gaping in sheer horror. “What?”

Nathaniel says nothing, picks up his pint, and downs all its contents in one smooth gulp.

—

Bartimaeus supposes he shouldn’t have been too shocked by the realisation that despite all his bluster, Nathaniel is in fact a complete and utter lightweight. Midnight rolls around and their big night ends with him half-dragging the boy’s worthless form through the front doors and towards the cab Kitty had offered to call for them. He can’t believe this is what his life has been reduced to, playing the role of nanny to an inebriated government official.

“Alright, in you go,” Bartimaeus orders, hauling him into the dark interior of the waiting vehicle. Once he clambers in after him, Nathaniel instantly sags against his side. “I should have known tonight was going to end like this.”

“All your fault,” Nathaniel sighs sleepily, one of his arms coming up to curl itself around Bartimaeus’ midsection.

“Get him home in one piece, yeah?” Kitty says. She watches the scene unfold in front of her, eyes dancing with amusement. 

“Don’t worry about us, Kitty,” Bartimaeus tells her. Nathaniel’s head lolls onto his shoulder, dark hair tickling his nose. “The things I do for you, Natty boy.”

“Thanks, Mum,” Nathaniel slurs in reply, his tongue coming out heavy against the roof of his mouth.

But before Bartimaeus can get a word in, Kitty’s lips twist into a knowing smirk. “I don’t think Bart is your _mum_.” With that, she slams the car door in his startled face. Thankfully, Nathaniel is too out of it to notice his blush.

—

Bartimaeus manages to get Nathaniel inside the house, up the stairs, and into his bedroom. Which in itself is no big achievement, seeing as the boy probably weighs around ten stone dripping wet. No, the only problem that slowly becomes evident is that Nathaniel, when he loses most of the stiffness that accompanies his every movement during his waking hours, is actually as clingy as a baby octopus.

“Here we are.” Bartimaeus deposits Nathaniel on his bed. Or at least, he attempts to. Because somehow during their struggle up the winding staircase, Nathaniel had also looped his arms around Bartimaeus’ shoulders and now refuses to let go, which ends with him pulling Barimaeus down onto the bed with him, head tucked into his shoulder.

“I have to admit, I usually ask blokes to buy me a drink before I climb into bed with them,” Bartimaeus remarks, mouth muffled by waves of soft black hair. Huh. He can, in fact, smell every single product on Nathaniel’s bathroom shelf. “Though I guess since I swiped your card before we left, you did really pay for everything.”

“Stay,” Nathaniel mumbles, the word laden with drowsiness. He lets out a yawn and tightens the arm draped around Bartimaeus. “I’m glad you’re here.” The sentiment that emerges is slightly muted, and no doubt the product of intoxication, but there’s also a stark sense of honestly weaving its way into his tone, one that will disappear before the morning comes. Whatever it is, Bartimaeus can’t bring himself to poke fun at him for it.

It eventually occurs to Bartimaeus that lying here in the half-dark, with the only light coming in being the soft filtered shades from the street lamps outside the window, partially obscured by the heavy drapes that hang from the west wall of the boy’s bedroom, brings with it a sort of intimacy he’s never experienced, and is sure as hell Nathaniel never has either. Strange how they’ve got more in common than one would expect. Even more bizarre is the idea that the first real concept of home he’s ever understood should come because of the twitchy little jerk he was hired to kill.

“Alright, Nat, while this was nice and everything, I’m not entirely sure I don’t prefer you being your usual uptight self.” Bartimaeus somehow extricates himself from Nathaniel’s steel grip and rolls off the bed. He stands over him for a second, allowing himself to register the extremely unusual feeling coursing through his body. If he had to put a name to it, he’d think he was almost fond.

Bartimaeus turns to walk out into the hall and towards his own bedroom, when another sensation washes over him, this one startlingly familiar. Despite his penchant for rapid-fire comebacks and his overall chatty demeanour, his reflexes have always worked quicker than his thoughts, and he dodges just in time for the knife to whiz past his head and lodge itself into the wall behind him.

The assassin stands in the middle of the hallway, his form looming large and towering over him. In the darkness, Bartimaeus can only make out the sharp edges of an object atop the man’s head, the rest of his wide body encased in long, black shadows.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you breaking into other people’s homes is rude?” Bartimaeus quips, as he straightens up. He dusts plaster off his shoulder and notices the huge hole the knife made in the wallpaper. Well, Nathaniel is definitely not going to be pleased about that.

“Bartimaeus?” The assassin steps forward, moving into a square of dim light, and Bartimaeus takes in the tall man with a rather protruding forehead. He would also recognise that silly falsetto voice anywhere. Really, as if there’s anything less intimidating than being attacked by an assassin with a high-pitched warble and a fondness for eye patches. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me they sent two of us to kill the same mark.”

“Oh, hello, Ascobol. It’s been a while,” Bartimaeus greets, attempting to adjust his body into a less defensive stance. He fervently hopes Ascobol doesn’t remember that their last conversation ended with Bartimaeus informing him he’d never be hired to kill so much as a gnat. “Er, as a matter of fact, I was. Funny that they should send us to the same place, but I was here first, so you can go off now. I’ll, er, take care of him.”

For a second, it almost seems as if Ascobol is going to take the bait and leave. Then something dawns on his gnarled features. “Wait. You’re not the assassin that guy was talking about, are you? The one who missed the hit?”

“Okay, I will have you know that I have never missed a mark in my life,” Bartimaeus argues, peeved. He has no idea why people keep saying that. “I can assure you that this was all part of my game plan.”

“Then step aside and let’s finish this,” Ascobol replies. “Shit, you have seen the fee, right? Money like that and we could jet off to anywhere in the world we wanted for months on end.”

Ascobol takes a step to the right, which Bartimaeus immediately blocks. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. Have you ever tried to murder an unconscious man? Almost too easy. An assassin of your level of talent needs a hit with a bit of an edge to it. To be honest, I think it’s quite insulting that you were sent here. Someone like you deserves more of a challenge. Might I suggest—”

“Would you just let me pass!” Ascobol grunts in annoyance. Once again, he attempts to move around Bartimaeus and into the bedroom. “This is my last warning.”

“Oh, I’m afraid now. What are you going to do? Give me a time-out?” Bartimaeus counters. “This isn’t the nursery.” Then he notices the second knife Ascobol has pulled out and sighs deeply. Here they go again. “Or I suppose you could do that as well.”

Ascobol makes a lunge for him, but Bartimaeus is able to crouch down and kick the man’s legs out from underneath him, knocking him off-balance and sending him crashing into the opposite wall. One of the framed portraits swings off its hinges and lands on the carpeted flooring. Bartimaeus deftly rolls onto his side as Ascobol stabs at the Persian rug, dragging out the multicoloured threads and leaving a massive tear in the fabric. 

He knees Ascobol in the stomach as he attempts to free the knife embedded deeply into the hardwood, causing Ascobol to collapse on the ground while Bartimaeus gets to his feet. In a sudden burst of rare intelligence, Ascobol simply decides to abandon the weapon at the last second, and instead comes at Bartimaeus, catching him off-guard as he wraps his meaty hands around his rival’s neck with use of his superior strength. For a moment, Bartimaeus is left pinned to the wall, legs hanging limply under him.

“Faquarl was right, you always have been too soft for this business,” Ascobol declares with a sneer. His fingers tighten around Bartimaeus’ throat. “All your pointless arguments on the ethics of right and wrong and those other bollocks, and look what good it’s done for you.”

Well, with death bearing down on him at the hands of the Academy’s biggest blundering fool, Bartimaeus has to admit that Ascobol does have a point. So far, his time with Nathaniel has brought him nothing but trouble. He can barely summon up the strength to choke out a response in what are undoubtedly the last few seconds of his life. The utter unfairness of it all.

Without warning, Ascobol is thrown to the side, dropping Bartimaeus to the floor in the process. He falls to the ground in a graceless and rather painful heap, and sucks air back into his lungs, searching his surroundings for his saviour. What he finds is Ptolemy leaping around in the air as a disgruntled Ascobol rises to a standing position, the dog panting excitedly at the chance to play with a new friend.

“No, get away, you stupid dog,” Ascobol mutters, trying to dodge the yapping corgi making a reach for his hand. He attempts a kick in Ptolemy’s direction, which Bartimaeus uses a distraction in order to scoop the dog under his arm with one hand and land a much deserved sucker punch at Ascobol’s jaw with the other.

“Good boy,” Bartimaeus says, setting Ptolemy in the doorway to Nathaniel’s room, where he instantly makes a beeline for the bed. When Ascobol pulls himself together and tries to launch his body at Bartimaeus again, Bartimaeus delivers a well-aimed knee jerk down where the sun don’t shine and restrains him to the floor when he keels over in pain. 

Bartimaeus grabs Ascobol by the collar and yanks him to his feet. “Spread the word: send anyone else in here and I’ll come after you myself.”

“What happened to you?” Ascobol demands through gritted teeth. Bartimaeus unceremoniously throws the front door open and shoves him into the night. “Since when have you ever cared about a mark?”

“Time, maturity, boredom,” Bartimaeus lists, ticking the points off on his fingers. “I prefer to think of myself as a being of air and fire, my whims are impossible to pin down.” When Ascobol blinks at this display of theatricality, Bartimaeus shrugs. “Well, I’d like to say it’s been nice catching up, but I honestly wouldn’t mind if I never saw your face again.” And with this last bit of cheek, he slams the door closed.

It takes him another twenty minutes of double checking and reinforcing the security measures on the front door. The window in the sitting room had been greased with oil, the bolts loosened with the sort of high-tech screwdriver Bartimaeus is sure hadn’t come from the local DIY shop. He makes a mental note to order in some sensory detectors as he shuffles back in the direction of Nathaniel’s bedroom, waves of exhaustion crashing over him. Bartimaeus stands in the doorway for a second, completely amazed that Nathaniel is still sound asleep, not a single care in the world.

Bartimaeus drags his feet across the carpeted floor as he moves closer to the bed in a daze. His mind is fogging over with tiredness, and when he collapses on top of the blanket face first, Nathaniel instinctively rolls over to give him space. The sound of the boy’s steady breathing in his ear, and Bartimaeus is out like a light.

—

Morning brings with it an entirely new kind of distress when Bartimaeus cracks an eye open and the first thing he sees is Nathaniel’s blurry features fading in and out, the sunlight streaming in through the thick drapes and washing everything in brightness twisting his view into a distorted and fractured one. Christ, it’s like he’s been run over by a lorry. He’ll never admit it, but for about a fraction of a second, his brain goes straight to the gutter as he mulls over what other physical activities might have caused him to be this knackered.

Then the reality of his current predicament crashes over him, and he lifts his head from the pillow, blinking blearily as Nathaniel’s extremely panicked gaze comes into sharp focus. The boy’s hair seems as if he’d been dragging his fingers through it in agitation, and his blue eyes are wide and trained on Bartimaeus.

“Bartimaeus,” he begins. The attempt to sound calm falls extremely flat. There is definitely a faint note of hysteria building in his tone. “What are you doing here?”

“Calm down, Nat,” Bartimaeus mutters, pushing himself into a sitting position. The boy is a downright mess but he doesn’t think he’s any better off. “We’re both fully clothed. No need to get those expensive pants of yours in a twist.”

If possible, Nathaniel manages to appear even more startled. “What? No, of course we didn’t—I wasn’t implying—Why would we—”

“You plan on finishing any of those sentences sometime today?” Bartimaeus lets out a long yawn. Frankly, he’s exhausted. That makes two actual altercations he’s gotten into within the span of two and a half months. And that’s not even counting his minor scuffle with Simpkin, the demonic barista. He’s usually one to avoid direct confrontations, launching small-scale attacks from a considerable distance and choosing missions that are less taxing in nature. “Or can you just not comprehend the possibility of falling into bed with someone as good looking as I am?”

It takes Nathaniel a minute to answer, his mouth opening and closing rather ungraciously with the likeness of a goldfish. “That’s beside the point,” he eventually replies, voice strangled in his throat. “And that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my bed.” He scans the room around him and zeroes in on the cracked wallpaper, the handle of a knife still sticking out of it. “What is _that_? I know I told you I’d rather you do your training exercises in the attic.” 

This latest direction had been the result of the single occasion Nathaniel had wandered downstairs and caught Bartimaeus doing pull-ups in the kitchen. His eyes had bulged out of their sockets for an instant before he promptly freaked out and went on another one of his endless tirades on how difficult it was likely going to be to clean sweat from his precious carpet. As if the boy has ever picked up a hoover in his life. Bartimaeus’ protests on the importance of staying fit fell on deaf—and quite pink, now that he really thinks about it—ears.

Then Nathaniel notices Ptolemy, still asleep and perched at the edge of his duvet, the warm brown of his fur lit up by the sun. “And what is the dog doing here?”

Bartimaeus gapes at him. The absolute nerve of this little shit. To be accusing him after everything he’s done. That’s it, important member of the British government or not, he’s had enough. “For your information,” he starts, a hard edge to his words, “that dog and I saved your worthless hide last night.”

As if picking up on the heat beneath his response, Nathaniel gathers together what is left of his dignity and draws himself up. Quite hard to do when you’re still dressed in a rumpled suit from the night before, but he does give it his best effort. “Well, for your information,” he says cattily, “I was perfectly capable of getting home by myself last night.”

Bartimaeus rolls his eyes. For the love of God. “I’m not talking about _that_,” he stresses. “Although the idea that my own nan could drink even you under the table is completely laughable. No, someone is trying to kill you.”

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. Maybe some kind of sharp inhale or a gasp or an exclamation of horror followed by a profuse stream of thanks. But instead of the heavy, oppressive silence he assumed would follow as his announcement twisted into the space between them, what he gets is Nathaniel running a hand down his cheek, his head cocked to one side. “Yes,” he says.

Bartimaeus reels like he’s been slapped. “Wait, you knew?” he demands. “Did Kitty warn you about this beforehand? Because I would have really appreciated the information before I almost got choked to death by a one-eyed hulk of a man.”

Nathaniel blinks at him. “Wait, what?” And it’s only then that Bartimaeus figures where the miscommunication is coming from.

He stifles a frustrated groan. “Someone aside from me,” he clarifies, hoping to convey the gravity of the situation at hand.

But Nathaniel’s face just takes on a thoughtful expression. “I suppose that does make sense. Seeing as you couldn’t do the job, whoever is after me is probably searching for someone who can.”

This piece of— “‘Gee thanks, Bartimaeus, I would have been dead without you,’” Bartimaeus says sarcastically, adopting a pretty accurate impression of Nathaniel’s voice. If he says so himself. He even adds in the extra dose of sickeningly sweet charm his tone takes on when he’s talking to someone in authority.

Nathaniel scoffs. “I hardly sound like that. And had you actually done your job, I would have been dead _because_ of you.”

Bartimaeus’ mouth clicks shut. That is…a very good point.

But then Nathaniel sighs and sags against his mountain of pillows. “Though I suppose I should thank you all the same.” He glances at Bartimaeus, directing those blue eyes straight at him. “Thank you, truly. I appreciate it.” It’s only the second instance Bartimaeus has heard him say it, but he does sound less stiff this time around.

“Well, okay, you’re welcome,” Bartimaeus mumbles, growing awkward at the boy’s outright sincerity and the general sappiness of this entire exchange. This is definitely way more than he thought he’d be able to pry from him. He decides to change the subject. “The point is, your house isn’t safe anymore. We’ll need to get you out of this room for now.”

Nathaniel fixes him with a dry stare. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually have an underground bunker built into this house,” he responds. “If an assassin managed to find their way in last night, I highly doubt a change of rooms is going to do much to stop them.”

“Maybe not on your own, since last night proved you’d probably sleep through a nuclear attack,” he says. Before Nathaniel can protest, Bartimaeus continues. “But if I’m there, at least you’ll have a fighting chance of surviving until the morning.” And it’s only once the statement leaves his lips does the insinuation of this suggestion descend on him. But he finds himself unable to retract it or play it off as a joke.

There’s also the rather disconcerting realisation that he doesn’t really want to.

Nathaniel picks at the frayed end of his bedspread, avoiding Bartimaeus’ gaze. “Are you proposing that we share a room?” The fact that none of the guest rooms in his house have more than one bed in them goes unsaid. 

Bartimaeus coughs, the tips of his ears burning. Good Lord, Kitty would be having a field day if she witnessed this. He can’t quite look at Nathaniel, either. “Just for safety purposes. Until we put a stop of this whole operation.”

“Of course.” Nathaniel nods, throat bobbing. “For safety.” 

“Exactly.” There is a brief, loaded silence. Then Bartimaeus adds, “Breakfast?”

“Please,” Nathaniel replies. 

And that is how they wind up sharing a room. For safety.

—

A few weeks later, Bartimaeus and Kitty are sitting in the kitchen, awaiting Nathaniel’s return from the office. The three of them had made tentative plans to try a new sushi restaurant that just opened in Piccadilly. To pass the time, Kitty has her laptop open in front of her, fingers moving across the keyboard as she types up lines of code. Bartimaeus, for his own part, has been trying to defend his and Nathaniel’s sleeping arrangement for the better part of an hour.

“It makes a lot of sense if you really think about it,” he says. This is maybe the third time he’s said as much, but he’s determined to get her to believe him before the boy comes home.

Kitty hums a noncommittal sound in reply, her attention focused on her work.

“It’s definitely not a problem or anything,” Bartimaeus goes on. He suddenly feels quite chilly in here. The heating in this house is almost always switched down to nothing, seeing as Nathaniel was probably born with ice injected into his veins and is impervious to the cold.

“Of course,” Kitty answers in a placid tone. She pauses for a beat, and then resumes typing with renewed vigour.

“Scout’s honour,” Bartimaeus stresses, resolutely forcing himself not to think about having to poke Nathaniel awake because the boy is actually terrible with mornings and is forever sleeping through his many alarms. Or about their arguments on Nathaniel’s propensity for blanket theft despite the frigid temperature of the bedroom, culminating in him buying Bartimaeus his own comforter. Or about the day Bartimaeus came home and found him asleep with Ptolemy stretched out on his chest, their breathing soft and in tandem. It made for a heartwarming scene. “It’s all fine and dandy.” 

This time, Kitty finally takes pity on him and spares him a glance, her grey eyes boring into his intensely as she slowly lifts an eyebrow. In this look is all the recrimination words could never convey quite as eloquently. Bartimaeus actually feels chills run down the back of his neck all the way to the base of his spine. Once again, he wonders how to get this girl a career in interrogation. Her success rate would be off the charts. 

“It’s a bit of a problem,” Bartimaeus admits. He supposes there’s no use hiding it now. Not from Kitty Jones and her death stare. “Isn’t it?” 

“Oh, yes,” Kitty says, and he groans. He is most definitely fucked. And then she adds, “So, what are you going to do about it?” 

Before he can stutter out what surely would have been a garbled and pathetic response, the locks on the front door whir to life, followed by Nathaniel rushing into the kitchen in a flurry of paper and fabric. He quickly dumps his overstuffed briefcase on the kitchen island and shrugs out of his coat in one fluid motion. Without speaking, he fumbles for the remote control and points it at the television positioned near the breakfast nook.

“Hello to you, too,” Bartimaeus says mildly. For some strange reason, he’s also blushing rather profusely, the manner a student caught thinking inappropriate thoughts about their headmaster might. This being nothing more than a clever comparison on his end, of course. Bartimaeus would have sooner fantasised about a footstool than any of his mentors at the Academy. A lifetime of assassin work takes a toll on the physical form in the most glaring of ways. It was often the norm to study under tutors with missing limbs, eyes, and on one notable instance, an actual hole at the back of their hand. “You know, most people prefer to have conversations before heading straight to the telly.”

Nathaniel tosses him a brief look over his shoulder. “Hello,” he says in a monotone. Then he returns to frantically flipping through the channels until he settles on the news. “They’ve arrested the terrorists in connection with the recent attacks.”

Kitty abandons her computer and moves closer to the television. “When?”

“Just now,” Nathaniel informs her. “I received the alert on my way here. One of Duvall’s men caught them about to plant another bomb near the Tower. They’re making the arrests and Duvall is due to give a press conference tomorrow. All this done without Whitwell’s knowledge, of course. She’s absolutely furious. She wasn’t even allowed to interrogate the suspects, and Devereaux is just glad to be able to put this all behind him that he’s giving Duvall the leniency.”

As he speaks, they watch as two burly men in handcuffs are led through a mob of photographers and reporters, not even bothering to try and shield their identities from the harsh glare of the flashing lights and the endless stream of questions being shouted at them. At the helm of all the chaos is Henry Duvall, his chin held high as he ushers the terrorists into the back of a police cruiser.

The two of them begin to talk, sketching out plans and ideas on their next course of action. This moment should by all rights be one of vindication for them, a stepping stone towards the answers they’ve been trying to find. But Bartimaeus has stopped listening. Because there’s also one very important factor he has yet to share.

“I know those two men.” Silence settles on the room as his words sink in. Twin expressions of shock turn to him. “The ones being arrested.”

Kitty regains her composure first. “Are they fellow assassins?”

Bartimaeus shakes his head. “No. These were the two idiots who attacked me in the alley on the day of Makepeace’s audition. The bearded man’s underlings.”

Nathaniel’s eyes are glittering with thought. “And you’re certain these are the same men?”

“As certain as I’ll ever be.” Bartimaeus peers closely at the screen. “No, that’s definitely them. See the one with the nostrils? I would recognise them anywhere. Like two great black holes. It’s a wonder anyone is able to breathe with him around. And that other man, those hawk eyes would have haunted a lesser man than me in his dreams.”

Kitty leans forward. “Are you telling me you think this is all staged as well?” Bartimaeus can almost see the gears in her head working as she struggles to come to a veritable conclusion. “That they’re all in it together: the police, the bearded man, and Amanda Cathcart.”

“It does make sense,” Nathaniel ponders. His mouth twists in displeasure. “Duvall is ambitious, but I hardly think he has the intelligence to come up with such an elaborate and complicated plan. Most likely he sought out this bearded man as a sort of adviser, clearly paying him off with government funds.” 

“And with you being ordered to oversee the police investigation, especially knowing what he does about what you did to Lovelace and Tallow, it would explain why he’d want you out of the picture,” Kitty finishes. For a second, a satisfied peace descends on the room, the two burning bright with animation and enthusiasm, having moved up a level from what they had initially set out to accomplish.

Enter Bartimaeus, the wet blanket. “Well, good on you for putting everything together, but you do realise we still don’t have an ounce of proof to build on. Your deductive reasoning skills aside, we’ll be needing more concrete evidence if we really intend to expose them.”

The energy level drops significantly. “You’re right,” Nathaniel says, and Bartimaeus barely has time to whip out his phone and ask for a repeat for a video recording before he’s addressing Kitty. “Any luck on breaking the firewall around Amanda Cathcart’s emails?”

Kitty frowns, clearly frustrated. “I have gotten through a bit, but every time I think I’ve got it cracked, there seems to be another barrier in my way. I’ve even done a scan on Duvall’s work computer and found nothing. Whatever he’s been using to contact the bearded man, it’s not his own.”

Nathaniel sighs, defeated. And then a light goes off in his head and he slowly lifts his gaze, focusing on Bartimaeus. “There’s something else we can do. We can interrogate the two men ourselves. The old-fashioned way.”

It takes Bartimaeus a while to cotton on to what the boy is suggesting. Kitty bites at her lower lip, looking all at once eager and excited to get started, and as if she’s already mentally tabulating the cost of his funeral in her mind. Then she says, “We’ll need the blueprints of the building,” and it all clicks into place.

Bartimaeus glances at Nathaniel. “Are you asking me to break into Scotland Yard?”

Nathaniel nods. “I’m asking you to break into Scotland Yard.”

Bartimaeus exhales lowly. “So much for getting sushi.”

—

“Are you ready?” Nathaniel asks him. They’re standing in the shadow of an alley nearest the side of the building, the brightness of the late afternoon washing over them through a thin film of clouds. Outside the front steps, reporters and government officials alike are gathered in wait for the press conference to be headed by Duvall on the recent terror attacks.

Nathaniel is wearing his usual work attire, a thick wool coat thrown over slacks and the front buttons of his suit casually unbuttoned at the throat. Bartimaeus has often wondered if his many female admirers would feel the same way if they knew just how long it takes him to get dressed in the morning, with Bartimaeus more often than not shoving a shirt at his chest and reminding him to get a move on. Sitting in the front row is Nathaniel’s boss, Home Secretary, Jessica Whitwell, a woman so bone-thin that by all rights her crossed legs should have ignited a flame. The expression on her face is one of abject disapproval.

Nathaniel notices him staring. “Whitwell isn’t exactly happy with me at the moment,” he admits. They move closer to the wall and away from the massive crowd. “My failure to intervene on Duvall’s investigation has weighed heavily on the department, though the masses see it as a joint effort on the parts of both the police and the Office. If we do manage to uncover everything we’ve suspected, this would return me to her favour.”

“Because being in Whitwell’s favour is far more important than staying alive,” Bartimaeus remarks. Once again, he’s surprised by the depth of the boy’s disinterest in his own self-preservation. “It’s honestly a miracle you’re still standing here in front of me.”

He dismisses this. “I don’t need to worry about protection as long as I’ve got you around,” he replies, distracted enough by the growing congregation that Bartimaeus isn’t entirely sure he’s aware of what he just said. “Remember what we discussed: with the Prime Minister in the audience, security is bound to be at its tightest in the front. Not that the back areas will be ignored, but I trust you’ll be able to get inside with minor issues.”

The three of them had spent the better part of the night and most of the early morning poring over a blueprint of the intricate works of New Scotland Yard that Kitty had produced from Duvall’s files. It was from these plans that they pinpointed the exact air ventilation system accessible from the reception of the back lobby, one which also cuts straight through to Duvall’s office from the holding cells where those awaiting further action are usually kept.

“The two men should be in one of the holding rooms, unless Duvall has insisted on getting creative.” Nathaniel drags a hand through his hair. Bartimaeus can practically feel the jittery anxiety radiating from him in waves. “Stick to the leftmost side if you want to avoid the cameras, especially if—”

“I was there when we came up with all this,” Bartimaeus reminds him. “You have got to calm down.” And then, almost unconsciously, he presses a hand to the boy’s pale wrist, feeling his elevated pulse rush through his skin. “After all, I’m a professional. There’s no need to fret over the state of your posh job when I’m the one about to break into a building that’s got more security than Heathrow.”

Then again, he had once managed to smuggle a live goose under his coat by taking on the guise of a pregnant woman. The officer looking over his papers had even offered him a complimentary upgrade. It made the nightmare scenario that followed as the goose woke up mid-flight and began terrorising the rest of the passengers in the cabin a little easier to bear. Anything after that has got to be a piece of cake. 

Nathaniel shakes his head. “It’s not me I’m worried about,” he mutters, too low for anyone other than Bartimaeus and his keen sense of hearing to pick up on. But before he can add to that, the doors burst open and Duvall strides forth, waving proudly as newscasters jump to their feet, chattering over each other, the flashing of camera bulbs blinding. Whitwell purses her lips together into a thin line. “It’s starting. I’m not certain how much time you’ll have, but knowing Duvall and his penchant for boasting his achievements, this could take a while.”

“Alright, you better go.” Bartimaeus inclines his head in the direction of the melee. “It wouldn’t do very well for the Security Minister to miss what is undoubtedly a momentous day in British politics.”

Nathaniel regards him seriously. “I’ll see you at home.” With that, he disappears into the crush. 

Bartimaeus glances up at the towering concrete and glass structure, the slowly moving sky reflected on the surface giving the entire building the appearance of an unfathomable stretch of the heavens above. With one last look over his shoulder at the mass of people clamouring to the front, he quickly makes his way towards the back entrance. Two roving security guards are stationed by the doors, standing at attention.

Bartimaeus saunters up to them. “Gentlemen.”

One nods politely in response. The other wrinkles his brow. “What’s that in your—” is about as far as he gets before Bartimaeus launches himself at him, simultaneously delivering an impressive flying kick at the second guard’s stomach and pressing a flannel doused in a healthy amount of chloroform over the nose and mouth of the first. The man drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes, and Bartimaeus walks over to the second guard, sprawled on the pavement and moaning like a baby.

“Come now,” Bartimaeus chides, pressing the cloth to his face until he stops struggling. “You’ve really got to tough it out if you want to keep your job. I haven’t even broken any bones.”

As soon as their unconscious forms are safely stowed behind a nearby dumpster, Bartimaeus jogs up the front steps and emerges into the foyer that houses the rear section of the station. Through a set of glass panels installed behind a wooden desk, he’s able to see into a long hallway lined with conference rooms that lead to the cluster of lifts at the far end. The reception area itself is simple and sparsely furnished, with only a dark blue settee positioned against the left wall set next to a small circular table. Bartimaeus presses himself against this side as he traces the path leading to the furniture, staying clear of the range of the security camera mounted on the opposite corner. When he gets to the sofa, he climbs on top of it, reaches for the loose piece of ceiling tile he knows leads straight into the air duct system, and pushes it aside. Once open, he hooks his fingers around the edges of the square and pulls himself inside before he swiftly replaces the tile behind him. This action seals his body in total darkness, save for a few pinpricks of brightness coming through the gaps in the metal plating. Anyone who’s ever said he shies away from dangerous missions can kiss his arse after this.

As he begins to move in what he hopes is the right direction, he’s alerted to the faint noise of an ongoing discussion coming from directly underneath him. Bartimaeus lays himself flat against the metal surface of the air duct and turns his ear to the ground, doing his best to make sense of the snippets of speech he picks up on. The sound of two pairs of footsteps walking in tandem draw closer to him, heading towards the back entrance. He thanks his lucky stars he had the foresight to hide the guards’ bodies. There’s no telling what sort of pandemonium that discovery might have caused.

“The boss says he’s got everything planned…big event,” a rough, deep voice is saying to his companion. “He’s made…necessary arrangements…new place.”

The men briefly stop under his hiding spot, allowing him to hear the next bit of their exchange in full. “I do hope this year is better than last year’s party,” the other man, with a more soft-spoken and milder voice, replies. “Are you certain about this, Jenkins?”

Jenkins lets out a harsh laugh. “You mistrust me, Palmer?” he asks, a faint edge to his tone. “I can assure you, it’s all set up…” They continue on their way, taking the rest of their conversation with them.

For a minute, Bartimaeus forgets the task at hand as he puzzles over what they could have been referring to. Nothing in their words had hinted at any suspicious activity on their parts, but after the events of the last few months, he’s definitely learned that not everyone is as they first appear to be. But when no discernible answers immediately come to him, he abandons that line of thought and instead focuses his energy into making his way through the innards of the headquarters of the city’s police force. If only Faquarl could see him now.

“Second left, third right,” Bartimaeus mutters to himself as he crawls, having memorised the directions Kitty had drilled into him the night before. He was half-expecting her to whip out a bunch of flash cards and a portable chalkboard at the rate she was going. She’d have given old Hodge back at the Academy a run for his money in terms of terrorising students, that’s for sure.

Through the slivers of space in the air ducts, he’s able to get a decent enough picture of the general layout of the office interior. Almost all the cubicles are empty, most of the occupants having gone outside to listen to their boss prattle on about himself. Bartimaeus feels the vent incline upwards, alerting him of the shift to the fourth floor, where both the detention chambers and Duvall’s office are located. He slows down and carefully counts his paces until he catches a flash of the holding rooms through the metal. At once, he notices that they’re all empty. But this doesn’t bother him much. They had theorised Duvall might be keeping the two men locked in his office, located another couple of rooms away.

As he crawls the last couple of meters, he notices an object deposited in a rather haphazard manner, as if whoever had left it there had done so in a hurry. Once he reaches the section of the duct he’s fairly certain is positioned directly on top of Duvall’s office, he stretches out his hand and grasps at the thick white fabric. To his utter bemusement, he discovers it’s a chef’s cap. Baffled, he scours the room from his limited vantage point. He can only just make out the edge of a glass coffee table, two styrofoam cups of coffee resting on its surface. Their covers are tossed aside, steam still emanating from the liquid. Another thing that instantly piques his interest is the hard sole of a shoe lying further to the right and out of his line of vision.

“Here we are.” Bartimaeus pulls a screwdriver out of his pocket and sets about unbolting the sheet of metal beneath him. That bit out of the way, he swings himself over the opening and dangles in the air for a precarious for a second as he regains control of his limbs and lands lightly on his feet. The cap still in his grip, he takes a good look around.

Well, it’s Duvall’s office, alright, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch out across the entire back wall, the view of Westminster and the rest of London’s towering skyscrapers blending perfectly into the still-blue sky. On one side of the office is a small meeting area, fitted with a vast leather settee pushed behind the glass coffee table. The other end houses a huge mahogany desk that rests in front of a massive bookcase, its shelves littered with all sorts of plaques and recognition plates. The table itself is strangely bare, with only a short stack of inter-office memorandums in the corner.

But it’s not the surprisingly tasteful decor that eventually captures and holds Bartimaeus’ attention. No, it’s the fact that slumped to the ground in front of the sofa, bodies lying in opposite angles, are none other than Bull Nostrils and Eagle Eyes. Their faces are taut with strain, their skin tinged with a faint purplish hue. Eyes shut, jaws slack, and when Bartimaeus crouches down and presses two fingers to their necks, he finds no pulse. There are no obvious indicators of a struggle, aside from the upturned coffee lids, which must have come undone as the men succumbed to whatever it is that killed them. To the most trained of medical professionals, it would appear as if the two simply had heart attacks and dropped dead. But the odds of separate people having simultaneous heart conditions is much too bizarre, and even more than that, almost impossible.

And that’s when it hits him. Bartimaeus’ gaze drops down to the unfinished beverages, his mind transporting him back to another place, another time, the feel of a tiny glass vial in his pocket, ready for use. The chef’s cap is clenched tightly in his fist. There’s only one other person who could have done this.

—

“I suppose I can’t say this comes as a huge surprise,” Faquarl intones, as he surveys the interior of the townhouse. He leans back against the cushions on the sofa, lounging for all the world as if he owns the place. Typical of him. “You avoid Queezle and I for months on end, and when you finally call upon me again, it’s to find that you’ve settled down with the enemy.” He inclines his head at Nathaniel. “How the mighty have fallen,” he muses. “Though I will admit this is a nice place. How many people did you have to kill for it?”

Bartimaeus readies himself to jump in with a faux-horrified comment about Faquarl’s months of inaction stripping his social graces down to that of a carthorse, but to his everlasting amazement, Nathaniel beats him to it. “Only two,” he answers in a pleasant tone. “And I didn’t so much kill them as put an end to their careers.”

A bewildered pause follows as Faquarl digests this. Bartimaeus’ mouth hangs open. He has an inkling he’s staring at Nathaniel with big cartoon stars plastered all over his eyes. Anyone who can serve it back to Faquarl like that is worthy of his respect. 

Faquarl appears to be thinking something along the same lines, if the smirk that immediately forms is anything to go by. “So, you’re the boy I was hired to kill all those months ago. I see now that you’ve inherited your…house guest’s regrettable sense of humour.” Then he turns to Bartimaeus. “How long into your coupling did this habit take to form?” Nathaniel wheezes harshly in response.

Bartimaeus shoots him a bright smile, unwilling to be deterred. “A little shorter than you’ve been with Queezle. It’s a pity that her brains didn’t rub off on you as well. But I’m sure she knows a hopeless case when she meets one.”

“Utterly hilarious,” Faquarl returns. His tone is so flat, ancient civilisations would probably attempt to navigate it only to fall off its edge. “I assume you thought of that comeback just now. Or have you been waiting to use it on someone for a while?”

Bartimaeus bats his eyelashes at him. “You should know my insults are custom-made specifically for you. There’s no need to be jealous.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Kitty cuts in, evidently having grown tired of listening to their little spat. Which is just as well, because he and Faquarl have been known to do the whole back and forth bit for hours on end. Queezle likes to call them stubborn bastards. Bartimaeus prefers to think of it as proving a point. But in this round of who can out snark the other, it’s Kitty Jones that’s coming out on top. She levels a glare at Faquarl, who, bless what remains of his soul, actually looks stunned. “Who hired you?”

Faquarl glances uncertainly at Bartimaeus, who shrugs in reply. He’s been there. “You know we don’t personally speak to our clients,” he says, directing this at Bartimaeus. “Queezle developed a program that enables her to protect both parties’ identities.” There’s definitely a faint note of pride in his voice as he gushes over his—shudder—girlfriend. Gross. “Every transaction is done through an encrypted server connected to the client’s email address, with the agreed fee automatically wired to a private bank account upon our confirmation of the kill. We received an order billed as an easy hit taking out two men from inside Scotland Yard, so I did. It wasn’t so much my preferred method, but as I had been gypped out of my last fee”—he glowers at Bartimaeus—“I decided to take it.” 

“Oh, right, about that,” Bartimaeus starts. “You might want to consider switching up your mode of attack.” He gestures at Kitty and Nathaniel, who are observing their exchange from the other side of the room. Kitty is sitting on one of the plush chairs with her laptop balanced on her knees. Nathaniel is perched on the chair’s left armrest, carrying Ptolemy under one arm. This brings back memories from when he’d been on the receiving end of their collective third degree. How time flies. “These two caught on pretty quickly.”

Kitty ignores him and continues to scrutinise Faquarl. “So you’ve got nothing of importance to share with us?”

At first, Faquarl makes no move to speak. Kitty leans forward, and the two of them remain locked in some kind of wordless battle of wills. Then he addresses Bartimaeus. “If you ever disclose to anyone I helped you out on this trivial crusade, there will be nothing left to bury. Do you understand me?” Bartimaeus nods quickly. At long last, even Kitty is quite intimidated now. But that’s Faquarl for you. His cunning and intelligence only rear their ugly heads on occasion. Not that Bartimaeus has ever mentioned this to him. “The requests came from the same encrypted server—”

Bartimaeus scoffs. “No shit, Sherlock. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out whoever ordered both hits is one and the same.”

Faquarl scowls at him. “Will you allow me to speak?” he seethes. Bartimaeus rightfully decides to shut up. “The orders came from the same server, yes. But they were also from an encrypted server we’d been contacted through before. Queezle was able to do a little digging after we’d stopped hearing from them, and she thought the name she discovered would be of some interest to you.” The overt disapproval on his features spells out just what exactly he thinks of her decision to aid their investigation. “As far as we can tell, these requests were sent in from the account of one Simon Lovelace.”

A stunned, astonished silence blankets the room in the wake of his answer. One so sharp and clear, the sound of a snowflake falling to the earth would have made a louder impact. In all the possible suspects they had listed down, all the theories they had discussed, analysed, pieced together, this is one that none of them in their wildest dreams would have ever predicted.

Bartimaeus breaks the ice first. As he is wont to do. “Well, this certainly complicates matters.”

“Simon…Lovelace?” Kitty echoes in a daze. “Are you absolutely positive?”

“And what, pray tell, would I get out of lying to you?” Faquarl quips with a droll stare. “Yes, we reviewed this particular client’s order history, and it matches up with certain…political events that had occurred while this idiot”—he jabs his thumb at Bartimaeus—“was off wreaking havoc in Goa. The last request came in a few weeks before Lovelace was arrested.” 

It’s at this moment that Nathaniel emerges from where he’d been frozen into a panicked stupor. Bartimaeus had started to grow concerned the boy was eventually going to keel over and die from the shock. “No, no, this isn’t possible,” he mutters. “Lovelace is currently being held in a maximum security prison halfway to Budapest. There’s no chance of him…” He trails off and another puzzle piece slots into place. “You’re wrong.”

Faquarl’s eyes narrow into slits. “You doubt my information?”

Nathaniel frantically shakes his head. “No, you're right about it being his computer, but there’s no reason for the person on the other end to be Lovelace himself. For one thing, after I brought all the evidence to Whitwell, she immediately ordered all his things to be seized and turned over to—”

Kitty’s hand flies up to cover her mouth as she lets out a dumbfounded gasp. “To police custody,” she finishes. Nathaniel nods. “This has to be Duvall. That’s why I couldn’t find anything on him. He’s been using Lovelace’s computer to do all of it: ordering the hit on you, choosing Amanda Cathcart, corresponding with the bearded man.”

“And he probably assumed he’d get away with it as well,” Nathaniel adds. The righteous fire that ignites his being has flared up, burning higher and more potent than Bartimaeus has ever seen. The amount of energy flooding out of him is enough to increase the temperature in the room by a few degrees. “No one would think to investigate a condemned man’s belongings.” The corner of his lip curls into an eager half-smile. “Will you be able to gain access into the device?”

“I can do much more than that,” Kitty replies. She resumes typing with frenetic focus. “I installed a backdoor on his laptop before you delivered it to Whitwell. We’ve got root access.”

Bartimaeus walks across the room and comes to a stop behind the chair Kitty and Nathaniel are settled on. “What does that mean?” After some reluctant deliberation, Faquarl does the same and moves to stand next to Bartimaeus on the girl’s other side. This scene makes for a strange family portrait, two professional assassins, an important member of the British government, a renegade hacker, and a corgi, all hunched over a computer screen.

“This means”—Kitty finishes typing a line of code with a flourish—“that we can do _anything_.” When her laptop begins to hum, she stretches her arms out in front of her. “And I’m willing to bet Duvall thought he was clever enough in using Lovelace’s computer that he wouldn’t bother trying to conceal his activity on here.”

As the system completes its scan, small bubbles of text and symbols begin to appear onscreen. Kitty mumbles to herself as she works through them, entering a series of numbers in some and pasting in a complex algorithm in others. Bartimaeus only manages to pick up on a few phrases such as “port” and “file sharing” in the midst of this brand new language. Nathaniel seems as perplexed as he does, while Faquarl, who is presumably more familiar with this process due to his relationship with Queezle, has grown occupied with cooing at Ptolemy, still being held securely under Nathaniel’s arm. 

“Here we are,” Kitty declares. The three men crane their necks forward in anticipation as an image slowly uploads bit by bit. It’s a grainy image taken of Nathaniel walking along the street outside his house. The pinched expression to his face suggests he was in the middle of a violent sneeze when the photo was snapped. “I ran a scan through the file sharing port. This is the picture that was sent to you”—she swivels around to glance at Faquarl—“when the hit on Nathaniel was placed.”

Bartimaeus peers closer. “This was really the photo he chose to send over?” he demands. “Safe to say, Nat, that is not your most flattering angle.” But Nathaniel is too busy frowning at the screen, clearly just as offended by Duvall’s choice. Then he realises something. “You know, I honestly wish you had sent me this months ago,” he says to Faquarl. “If I had only expected I’d taking out a kid, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Hmm.” Faquarl very pointedly drags his gaze from Bartimaeus to Nathaniel and back. “Are you sure about that?”

In the interest of preserving what’s left of his dignity, Bartimaeus chooses not to respond. At least both Nathaniel and Kitty are too absorbed by what they’re uncovering to take notice of the ongoing discussion behind them. Kitty continues her inspection on his files, scrolling through several months’ worth of emails in awe. “He’s got everything on here,” she murmurs. “Wire transfers to a bank in Nepal, blueprints of the defective pipe bombs.” She keeps going, pulls up a message with a link to Amanda Cathcart’s website, a photo shared of the blonde actress. And then, she finally stumbles upon a short exchange to an unknown sender. The missive on Duvall’s end is short, just four words: _Ambassador Hotel. Room 23_. The recipient’s contact name is distorted into a pattern Bartimaeus recognises.

“That must be the bearded man,” Nathaniel says. He’s looking at Kitty as if he’s about to drop to his knees and begin singing praises in her name. Bartimaeus can relate. “And this Ambassador Hotel is where he’s been working from.”

“That’s probably what those dead imbeciles were going on about,” Faquarl replies absentmindedly, as he scratches behind one of Ptolemy’s ears. When he notices everyone staring at him, he lifts his shoulders. “They’re doing something in the next few weeks or so. Something big. From what I gathered, the two fools weren’t a major part of the organisation, but they did allude to their boss having made arrangements at this exact hotel.”

Nathaniel inhales sharply. “Of course! They were talking about Devereaux’s birthday party. A colleague of mine mentioned that it was Duvall who formalised the plans for this year’s event. Whatever they’re plotting next, this is where they’re going to strike.”

A tiny bell of recognition resonates within Bartimaeus. “This colleague of yours doesn’t happen to go by the name of Jenkins, does he?”

Nathaniel jerks his head around to gape at him. “What do you know about Jenkins?” 

Bartimaeus runs through the overheard conversation in his mind. “Nothing too incriminating. I only eavesdropped on him and a fellow named Palmer discussing Duvall’s agenda for an upcoming bash. This is too much of a coincidence not to be the same affair. Whatever nefarious scheme Duvall has got going on, he’s sunk his claws into the other members of his department as well.”

“Another planted bomb, you reckon?” Kitty suggests. “Having thwarted an attempt on the Prime Minister’s life will obviously land Duvall right in his favour.”

“And I’m certain Duvall is itching for Whitwell’s post,” Nathaniel adds in a grim tone. “Once he has that, there isn’t a lot hope for the rest of us.” He turns to Kitty. “You’re going to need to examine the bearded man’s computer. While the evidence we have with us now is conclusive enough, I’m sure Duvall is just as ready to pin the blame on Lovelace and have us arrested for cybercrime in the process. We’ll need to bring you inside that hotel.”

Bartimaeus sighs as they grow more engrossed in their discourse, sketching out the bare bones of the next phase of their operation. The pair of them are going to get him killed, no doubt about it.

"Interesting company you keep," Faquarl remarks. Bartimaeus doesn’t want to presume, but he thinks old Faquarl actually sounds a tad genuine this time. "Are they always like this?"

“As of late,” Bartimaeus replies. He knows there isn’t any use in trying to get a word in until they’ve exhausted all possible options. He nods at the pot of tea he’d brought out earlier. “Tea?” 

“Look at you, Bartimaeus. Only a few months into your life of domestic bliss and you’ve already mastered the role of a homemaker,” Faquarl jeers. Then he relents. “But I suppose I could be persuaded to stay for one cup. You must have gained _something_ from being sequestered in that coffee shop for five months.”

“Listen, Faquarl, I’m not going to waste my breath trying to explain the importance of hard work to a man who spent the same amount of time cooped up in his girlfriend’s flat.” Bartimaeus grins at him over his shoulder as he walks towards the tray sitting on the middle of the coffee table. “Go on, just get it over with and admit you’ve missed me.”

"I wouldn’t push my luck if I were you," Faquarl warns. Bartimaeus passes him a saucer and elects not to point out that he didn’t technically deny it.

—

“Right, is everyone ready?” Kitty walks into Nathaniel’s study carrying a box in her hands. Her dark hair is twisted into a stylish knot at the base of her neck, the velvet length of her burgundy gown cascading to the floor in soft waves. Standing in the doorway and looking utterly unrecognisable, she could easily pass for one of the elite society women who are sure to make appearances at tonight’s event.

“What is that?” Nathaniel straightens his tie in front of the full length mirror built into the panel next to his desk. Why the boy had a full length mirror in his home office when he didn’t have cable television will forever be beyond Bartimaeus. It probably has something to do with the way he can’t pass by a reflective surface without stopping to fiddle with his hair. He’s dressed just as elegantly in a black tuxedo, his bowtie tied expertly with the aid of Bartimaeus’ nimble fingers, an action that had been accompanied by a rather loud round of throat clearing on Nathaniel’s part.

On the other hand, Bartimaeus is wearing a lime green vest over a frilly white shirt and black slacks, the regulation uniform of the employees at the Ambassador Hotel. Three days ago, he had scouted the place out and witnessed a member of the waitstaff emerging from the double doors that led into the back of the house. Bartimaeus had crept closer, preparing to pull another Simpkin, when the young man noticed his approach.

“Yo, dude, there’s no need for that,” the man said in an American accent. “I was planning to quit, anyway.” And with that, the fellow handed over his access card to an incredibly confused, yet still somehow grateful, Bartimaeus. He prefers to consider this as his good deed for the month.

The three of them had been planning for almost a fortnight when the official invitations came in for Nathaniel Underwood, Minister for Security, and a guest of his choice to attend a ball hosted by Quentin Makepeace in honour of the Prime Minister’s birthday. Devereaux himself was a huge patron of the arts, and the invite boasted a special half-hour musical production written by Makepeace on Devereaux’s life and rise to the position aptly titled _From Wapping to Westminster: A Political Odyssey_.

On a completely unrelated note, that was also the day Nathaniel returned from the office and informed them that the bulk orders of liquor for the party had doubled in volume.

“We’ll need to stay in touch with each other throughout the night,” Kitty explains. She sets the cardboard box down on the surface of the vast oak desk and retrieves a small black earpiece. Bartimaeus instantly recognises the module that will render the gadget invisible to the casual observer. This can only be one of Queezle’s special modifications. “Queezle lent them to me.”

After Faquarl had left and presumably told her of Bartimaeus’ new life, he had come back from the shops one afternoon only to find Queezle in the kitchen, chatting with Kitty over mugs of tea as if they were lifelong friends. From then on, Queezle had taken it upon herself to mentor the girl, teaching Kitty even more intrusive methods of spying on other people. He swears there are actually moments he thinks to check for surveillance equipment in his own house.

Nathaniel abandons his reflection and examines the contents of the box. “There are only two units.”

“Of course,” Kitty replies. “As your date, I’m going to be by your side for most of the party. But you’ll need to be able to coordinate with Bart on any suspicious activity sightings, especially once I disappear for a while during the theatrical performance. It’s the only bit guaranteed to hold everyone’s attention for a prolonged period of time.” Then she smirks. “Besides, I refuse to be subjected to the inane chatter I’m sure you’ll be listening to the entire evening.”

Bartimaeus slings an arm around the boy’s stiff shoulders. “Isn’t that great, Nat?” he asks. “It’ll be just like I’m inside your head.”

Nathaniel turns to Kitty. “I think I’d rather risk death.”

—

The Ambassador Hotel is an indisputably grand affair with its slate grey stone facade and red silk canopy, the circular driveway lined with a series of identical black town cars housing the most senior members of the British government and beyond. At the majestic front entrance, men and woman fitted in outfits similar to the one Bartimaeus has on stand at attention, ready to usher in the guests with nods, polite smiles, and in the case of one young man, a low bow.

“This is ridiculous.” Bartimaeus squints out of the tinted window as he watches the antics of his co-workers. “You’d think the Queen of Sheba was about to grace the event with her presence with the amount of pomp and circumstance going on here.” 

Nathaniel reaches to adjust his bowtie for the fifteenth time. “I would expect nothing less from Devereaux. Competent as he is, his sense of self-importance has ballooned to the extremes in the last couple of years.” 

“Coming from you, that’s a right proper insult,” Bartimaeus replies. Nathaniel’s features knot in a dark scowl. “And stop doing that.” He slaps the boy’s hands from his neck. “It may not mean anything to you, but that took me nearly ten minutes just to get it in place.”

“Alright, we’re getting closer,” Kitty declares before Nathaniel has a chance to retort. The car inches towards the main entryway. “You’d better take these.” She passes around the small earpieces. Bartimaeus clips the listening device to the back of his ear, where it instantly moulds itself to the shape. The minuscule microphone is pinned under his neck at the top of his vest. “Do they work?”

“Yes,” Bartimaeus says directly into the microphone, which causes Nathaniel to wince in shock.

“At least make an attempt to control the volume of your voice if this plan is to work in any way,” he argues. His own microphone is placed securely at the collar of his shirt, obscuring it from view. “It’ll be bad enough to have you prattling in my ear all night.”

Bartimaeus pretends to be offended. “Well, at least _I’m_ worth a good chat every now and then,” he counters. “You should try engaging in a conversation with yourself after a day at the office. Brick walls have been known to put in more of an effort.”

“Okay, we’re next,” Kitty says, ignoring their minor tiff. The car takes a sharp turn and slowly rolls to a stop. “Bart, stay here until you hit the service entrance. Nathaniel and I will see you inside.”

“Try not to get in too much trouble,” Nathaniel intones.

Before Bartimaeus can formulate an appropriate response—or perhaps a sort of rude gesture would have made a bigger impact—the car door is opened with a flourish and a cacophony of noise carries into the backseat as Nathaniel and Kitty step out into the night. Once the door is shut and silence blankets the interior again, the town car glides towards the side of the building. Bartimaeus gets out and slips in through the service entrance with the use of his acquired access pass.

The kitchen situation is fully chaotic what with everyone rushing to and fro, some carting around trays laden with delicacies and sweetmeats, flutes of the finest champagne being poured straight from the bottle and whisked into the party without a moment’s pause for the bubbles to settle. At the front of the room, the head chef barks orders as his staff painstakingly arrange prawn-and-cheese canapés with precision onto gleaming silver platters. 

Then the swarthy, red-cheeked chef notices Bartimaeus. “Oi, you!” he calls. “Take these out onto the floor.” He points at a tray topped with newly filled champagne glasses. 

Bartimaeus awards him with his most charming smile. “Certainly, sir.” He picks up the tray. “It would be an absolute pleasure.” Which is maybe laying it on a bit too thick, but after the overwhelming show of enthusiasm by his fellow staff members at the entrance, he thinks it would be easier to level his behaviour to match theirs. 

He emerges into the brightly lit, carpeted corridor that leads straight to the grand ballroom, a glorious space with an impressive, intricate silk tapestry woven across a domed ceiling. An extravagant crystal chandelier throws shards of rainbows along the east wall, which is made up almost entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows that lead out onto a terrace where a stunning view of the London skyline lies in wait.

Bartimaeus immediately spots Duvall huddled in a corner with Devereaux as he converses with a familiar man dressed in an equally as familiar frilly ensemble. The cotton stitching on his trousers has been altered to reflect the colours of the Union Jack in an act of patriotism. Bartimaeus strides off before Makepeace can recognise him from that disastrous audition. Though he does occasionally wonder which aspiring actor was lucky enough to land the part. He doubts any halfway decent thespian would have been able to save that show from being dragged to all hell by the theatre critics.

Hands stretch over and under each other as the guests grab flutes of champagne without sparing a glance at the man serving them. Bartimaeus uses this as an opportunity to scan the room for any sightings of the bearded mercenary or additional assassins. As of now, all seems to be clear, which does nothing to quell the rising feeling of impending doom. He continues on a circuitous route, slowly making his rounds in order to listen in as best he can for information that might be of use to him. 

“Very excited for tonight’s festivities,” a beautiful Spanish diplomat is saying to her assistant, who translates for an increasingly awed Carl Mortensen. Bartimaeus steers clear of offering him a drink, being all too aware of what the fizzy liquid will do to his bladder.

“…to have suffered some sort of mental break,” a rotund man, as tall as he is wide, remarks to the three woman beside him. Atop one of his fleshy cheeks sits a glass monocle attached to a thin gold chain. His white suit is tailored to his body in a manner that displays his impressive girth for the whole world to see. A bejewelled hand rests on top of a polished wooden cane. “One morning I came by the shop for a surprise inspection and found it completely trashed!”

“You couldn’t have known, Sholto,” the woman closest to him tuts. “It’s become nearly impossible to come by reliable staff these days. They’ve grown far too reckless and impolite if there’s anything to be taken from your experience.”

“You’re correct, of course,” the man named Sholto says with a sigh. “It was just that before his disappearance, Simpkin was the most efficient of workers. I’ve even tried questioning him on it, but he only mentioned an attack by an anonymous assailant. Clearly a figment of his imagination…” And this is when Bartimaeus moves on with a guilty stare. He has an inkling he’d been eavesdropping on the personal woes of a Mr. Sholto Pinn, the owner of the coffee chain he spent close to half a year unofficially working for. Poor Simpkin can’t have improved much if what he overheard is an indication. There’s definitely a valuable lesson to be gleaned from this, but for the life of him, Bartimaeus can’t decipher what that is.

“…no idea who he thinks he is, parading her around in front of me.” This time, the speaker is a slender young woman. Her dark hair falls to her shoulders like a waterfall. The bodice of her black gown accentuates her curves in all the right places, layers of tulle spilling out onto the marble flooring. Her eyes, a distracting shade of bright green, are fixed with the utmost loathing on someone across the room.

“No need to concern yourself with that, Jane,” the girl’s friend says. “You’re much prettier than she is.”

“I’d better be,” Jane replies with a disdainful sniff. Talk about cattiness at its best. Bartimaeus follows the line of her vision, expecting to find the gentleman responsible for this woman’s scorn, and is surprised when his gaze lands on Nathaniel and Kitty, who are standing next to a raised platform on the other end. Kitty is smiling politely while Nathaniel engages in what appears to be a rather one-sided dialogue with a meek-looking older woman blinking earnestly at him from behind huge spectacles. Bartimaeus leans forward, hoping to place her…

“Oh, that’s the old bird who’d come in Pinn’s Coffee every morning and knock back shots of espresso like she was dying of thirst,” Bartimaeus unconsciously comments into his microphone. “She’d probably give even you a run for your money in terms of vampiric nocturnal habits.”

From his spot, Bartimaeus watches Nathaniel turn beet red as the older woman continues to drone on and on, his mouth tightening slightly to signal his displeasure. Kitty observes the look on his face and scouts the ballroom with a wrinkled brow, her confusion morphing to delight when she catches sight of him.

“Thank you for your input, Ms. Malbindi,” Bartimaeus hears Nathaniel respond. “I shall include your proposal in my following meeting with Ms. Whitwell.”

“Nathaniel, please.” Ms. Malbindi flutters her eyelashes in what Bartimaeus assumes she considers to be a flirtatious manner. “I believe I’ve reminded you enough to call me Helen.” And with that, she departs with one last suggestive smile. Kitty doubles over in glee and Nathaniel’s ears darken a shade. 

Bartimaeus whistles lowly. “You never told me how popular you are with the ladies of your department, Natty boy.” He doesn’t notice the older man who had approached him to return his empty glass slowly backtrack upon seeing a waiter seemingly talk to himself. 

“That was Helen Malbindi, the Foreign Secretary.” Nathaniel’s answer echoes in his ears, his tone a tad annoyed. “And she’s been trying to recruit me into her department for ages. Rather unsuccessfully, I might add.”

“Those glasses of hers cannot be doing much if she still can’t see that you’d sooner lick Duvall’s boots than desert your darling Ms. Whitwell,” Bartimaeus remarks. 

“Don’t you have a job to do?” Nathaniel snaps. Bartimaeus isn’t sure if he’s simply imagining it, but Nathaniel actually sounds as if he’s suppressing laughter. “You’ve been carting around an empty tray for the last ten minutes.”

Bartimaeus glances down at the silver platter in his hands. “Oh. Odd, I didn’t realise.”

“Wouldn’t be the first thing you haven’t picked up on,” Nathaniel mutters, apparently to himself. It’s only too bad he forgets that this level of pitch is the perfect setting for the minuscule microphone to latch on to, causing Bartimaeus to hear his statement in full clarity.

“What was that?” he asks, pausing in his tracks on the way back to the kitchen.

“What?” Nathaniel responds. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“You uttered something just now,” Bartimaeus continues. “I heard you.”

“You must have misheard me,” Nathaniel says hurriedly. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I look like an absolute fool standing here mumbling to myself while leaving Kitty unattended. So I’d appreciate it if you tried to keep the cheeky comments to a minimum.”

“And here I was thinking you knew me better than that,” Bartimaeus quips. But he enters the kitchen and returns twenty minutes later, his tray now loaded with mushroom tartlets. At this point, a small string quartet has taken up residence on the raised platform, the soft lilt of their music weaving in between the noise of tinkling glasses and charmed exclamations. Bartimaeus drifts through the ballroom, offering hors d'oeuvres to eager guests not partaking in the dancing. He eventually spots Nathaniel attempting to lead Kitty in what is a truly appalling interpretation of the waltz.

He uses this opportunity to whisper in his microphone. “One hand on her waist, Natty boy. Dear me, it’s almost as if you’ve never touched a girl before. If I had any idea you’d be so terrible at this, I’d have offered to give you lessons.”

The boy flushes and he circles the space for the offending waiter. When he finally does find him, he sends a glare in his direction but doesn’t bother to reply. Kitty tilts her head in amusement.

Once dinner is announced, another two staff members chaperone guests through a pair of golden double doors and into a separate function hall. Garlands of flowers and dried fruit twisted into complicated patterns hang from a peaked ceiling, matching the strands threaded through the gilt chairs. A hundred or so tiny candles flickering in glass bowls are set along the walls, lending the impression that they’re floating in midair. Each round table is draped with a unique embroidered cloth, various cutlery, delicate wineglasses, and silver dishes laid out across the top with gusto. Men and women of all ages and titles settle down to await the feast while Bartimaeus and his fellow waitstaff move silently about the room, topping up beverages and replacing plates of appetisers.

Nathaniel and Kitty are assigned to the same table as a few other prominent government officials, most notably Jessica Whitwell, whose pale gown is the exact colour of her hair. This does nothing to make her look any less like a corpse wearing a shroud. To their right at the head table, sitting on a high-backed golden throne ornately carved with smiling cherubs, is Rupert Devereaux, the Prime Minister. On either side of him is a smug Henry Duvall, who appears to have brushed his beard for the occasion, and an excitable Quentin Makepeace, practically bouncing in his seat as he gestures wildly. Bartimaeus is sure he isn’t the only one who has noticed Duvall’s brand new place of honour. Whitwell seems ready to throttle the man. Then again, Bartimaeus is beginning to believe that may also just be her everyday expression.

Throughout the rest of the dinner service, Bartimaeus keeps one eye trained on the side entrances and back doors, waiting to catch a glimpse of the bearded man. But as the evening wears on, he sees nothing of him. He delivers a third tray piled high with plates of grilled lamb chops and salmon steaks to Nathaniel’s table and deftly places each one down for its occupants. Everyone is too engrossed in their own private exchanges to take note of the waiter. Kitty thanks him with a grin before resuming her discussion with the elderly gentleman on her left. Nathaniel is focused on straightening his tie. Again.

“Here we are, sir.” Bartimaeus presents him with his main course. “And _stop_ fiddling with your tie,” he adds in a whisper. 

Nathaniel glowers at him, but nonetheless drops his hands to his lap. “Have you seen anything suspicious?” he asks in a low undertone.

Bartimaeus shakes his head. “None, unless I’ve missed out on something. Is it just me, or does this make you more uneasy?”

Nathaniel nods. “My thoughts exactly. The production is due to start as soon as dinner is over. While Kitty is gone, we’ll have to be extra cautious if we—”

A pointed cough interrupts their hushed consultation. “Ahem.”

Both Nathaniel and Bartimaeus swivel in unison to stare at Ms. Whitwell, who is watching them converse with an eyebrow cocked. The beaded placemat in front of her is the only one still bare. “Underwood,” she says, “while I’m quite impressed by your attention to the waitstaff, I would be grateful if you would share with me what matter is so important that you’ve prevented him from serving my dinner.”

“Apologies, ma’am,” Nathaniel replies. Bartimaeus suspects if the boy had been on his feet, he’d have accompanied these words with a modest bow. “I was berating him for his clumsy incompetence. As you can see, he has given me shallots, of which I am deathly allergic. I asked him if a regular substitute was available and to provide me with a new plate.”

“My sincerest apologies, sir,” Bartimaeus responds, mimicking the oil-slick cadence Nathaniel adopts when deferring to his superiors. “Please let me finish serving this bewitching woman and then I’ll be back with your adjusted entrée.”

“Thank you,” Whitwell says, coolly assessing him over the frames of her spectacles. As she surveys him, a flash of an indecipherable emotion blooms behind the sharp twin points of her steely gaze. Something that almost reads like familiarity. Bartimaeus quickly gathers up Nathaniel’s plate and stalks off towards the kitchen lest he give anything else away.

Once the dinner service comes to an end and Devereaux is busy munching on a tower of glazed doughnuts, everyone is herded back to the main ballroom, where they discover the north section transformed into a miniature theatre. The raised platform that held the string quartet has expanded to cover the length of the entire room, and several set pieces are arranged on the stage along with a painted backdrop depicting the grounds of Eton College.

Bartimaeus decides to trace the path nearest to the windows, this time offering shot glasses filled to the brim with amber liquid. He definitely detects a slight desperation in the air as each guest makes a lunge for his tray as the hour of the performance draws closer. Eventually, the indistinct babble of countless conversations and tinkling laughter is disrupted by a whistle from the front. Makepeace stands in the middle of the stage, a spotlight bathing him in brightness like a celestial being.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe I no longer have any need to introduce myself, but for those being exposed to my company for the first time, I am Quentin Makepeace, a playwright, a connoisseur of the arts, and a lifelong supporter of this man, Mr. Rupert Devereaux. Let us all shower him with a round of applause in celebration!” He pauses in order to allow the cheers and clapping to fill the silence. “And while I do hope you have enjoyed the night’s festivities so far, the best is yet to come! Be prepared to laugh, cry, and sing your hearts out as I unveil my latest project in honour of our beloved Prime Minister. It’s going to be absolutely show-stopping. In my humble opinion, of course.” He winks boyishly at the assembly.

“Good Lord,” the man beside Bartimaeus mutters to his assistant. His straight grey hair falls over his forehead in a careless flop. The vivid orange colour of his tie is a stark contrast to the muted hues of the garments in his vicinity. But though the wrinkles that line his thin features are worn and deep, the calculating gleam to his eyes hints at a shrewd intelligence lurking below the surface. With a start, Bartimaeus sees that it’s the old man Kitty had been talking to for the majority of dinner. “I need a stiff drink.”

“No problem, Mr. Button,” the bloke says, bobbing his head. He beckons Bartimaeus to them. “May I?” he asks, reaching for the glasses.

“By all means, take two,” Bartimaeus replies, passing them to him. “You’re going to need it.” The lad gives him a small salute in gratitude.

A hush falls over the ballroom as the lights begin to dim. A drumroll builds to a crescendo that splashes onto the audience with gusto. A young actor wearing a public school uniform bounds on the platform and belts a merry tune on big dreams and wanting to change the world. The ministers surrounding Bartimaeus knock back their shots and instantly signal the roving staff for more. From his peripheral vision, Bartimaeus notices Kitty nod at Nathaniel and slink out of the hall.

“I hope she’ll be alright.” The distress bleeds through Nathaniel’s tone as his sentiment resonates in Bartimaeus’ ears. The boy is situated next to one of the exits that lead to the main corridor, on the opposite end from where Bartimaeus is standing.

“She’ll be fine,” Bartimaeus reassures him. “You ought to be more concerned with Kitty sneaking into the bearded man’s room only to stumble upon him having his nightly bath. Now _that_ would be downright traumatising if you ask me.” All the same, he does a precautionary sweep of the scene in front of him. The chamber is completely packed with members of London’s elite, an endless parade of silk gowns and jewel-encrusted headpieces and wool trousers forming an elaborate display. To his left, the wall of windows reflects the guests’ minute movements, his view distorted in the half-light. This is why it takes Bartimaeus a moment to realise that the black flash gliding along the glass panels isn’t an imprint of the crowd, but the form of a man speeding across the outdoor patio in the hopes of avoiding recognition.

“Got him.” Bartimaeus makes a beeline for the door that leads outside. “Meet me on the left. He’s skulking about the terrace.”

On the other end, Nathaniel attempts to push himself through the throng as inconspicuously as he can. Which is no considerable feat, seeing as by now, practically everyone has resigned themselves to the inevitability of fathomless boredom as they listen to another surprisingly jaunty tune being performed with relish. He’s just about to walk towards Bartimaeus when he’s accosted by someone. It’s the girl in the black gown who’d been glowering at him and Kitty. Her thin mouth is curled in unmistakable malice.

“Farrar,” Bartimaeus hears Nathaniel greet the woman.

Jane Farrar stretches out a delicate hand and lays it flat on Nathaniel’s chest. The sly grin she shoots him is similar in nature to the one Helen Malbindi had presented him with hours ago. The differences in effect, however, are extremely obvious. “Nathaniel,” she chides. “I thought we agreed to leave all these formalities behind us in university. I know I’ve told you time and time again to call me Jane.”

The sudden blare of a trumpet drowns the sound of Nathaniel’s terse response. Onstage, the boy Devereaux has been replaced with a young adult version strolling on the streets before a second backdrop representing the spiralled towers of the University of Oxford. The shadowy figure outside the windows has disappeared into the dark. Bartimaeus curses. “Stop flirting and get a move on!” he hisses. “Need I remind you that we’ve got less than half an hour to find the bearded man?”

“I am _not_ flirting,” Nathaniel whispers harshly. Fortunately, no one appears to have caught him seemingly talking to himself. Unfortunately for him, Farrar does.

“Excuse me?” Bartimaeus hears her demand. She withdraws her hand, her forehead puckered in indignation.

“Er, nothing,” is the boy’s eloquent rebuttal.

“I simply wanted to know your opinion on the murder of the two suspected terrorists,” Farrar says haughtily. As lovely-looking a girl as she is, her voice is as cold as ice. Even listening in from afar, Bartimaeus winces at the hard edge to it. “Since you were unable to help the police identify them.”

“Pardon me, Jane,” Nathaniel replies, pronouncing her name with as much scorn as she does his. When this is over, Bartimaeus is going to have to sit Nathaniel down with a bottle of wine and coax his entire life story from him. “But if I recall correctly, the official cause of death was announced to be the result of a medical affliction. I’m most interested to hear where you obtained the notion that foul play might have been involved in this.”

A glimmer of uncertainty passes across Farrar’s frosty expression. “My apologies,” she demures. “You are aware of how fickle the rumour mill can be, especially amidst the current political climate. To be frank, I overheard my Uncle Henry discussing the possibility of a murder plot and wanted to pick your brain on the matter.”

“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to defer to your uncle to answer your question,” Nathaniel says. “After all, he has a far greater understanding of the situation than I do.”

Sensing defeat, Farrar’s gaze flicks over to the empty space at his side. “And where is your guest?” she asks. “Rather beautiful girl, I thought. But I suspect you’ve driven her away already. What a shame.” The smile on her face is knife-sharp.

Ouch. “That was a good one,” Bartimaeus has to admit.

“Kitty had to use the restroom,” Nathaniel tells her. His own pitch is pleasant despite the dig she took at him. “I was actually going to find her when you intercepted me. So if you’d be so kind as to excuse me for cutting this conversation short, Jane.”

“I would be careful if I were you,” Farrar calls to him as he turns to leave. “As is often the case, our curiosity gets the better of us and we wander into scenarios it would be more”—she pauses delicately—“prudent to have no knowledge of.”

This succeeds in recapturing the boy’s attention. “And what is that supposed to mean?” A line of university students perform an intricate song and dance number while holding onto their textbooks. Devereaux cranes his neck forward and claps in excitement. Whitwell presses a hand to her mouth, smothering a yawn. Duvall checks his watch. Makepeace is nowhere to be found.

But Farrar merely shrugs her elegant shoulders. “Just a thought,” she says and wanders back into the crush.

“Well, it certainly took you long enough,” Bartimaeus comments when Nathaniel finally reaches him. “Are you going to tell me what that was? Because if contempt could kill, the glare I saw her direct at you earlier would have impaled you straight through the heart.”

“Oh, Farrar? Pay her no mind,” Nathaniel says brusquely. “We were in the same year at university. She was president of the Students’ Association. I graduated with a first. Somehow, she’s never quite forgiven me for it.” But the overt rigidity to his posture suggests an even deeper story, one he’s doing his best to avoid divulging.

Bartimaeus manages to piece it together. “Did I just witness you reuniting with a former girlfriend?” A muscle twitches in the boy’s jaw. “Check you out, you’re blushing like a tomato. I’m impressed, Nat. Truly didn’t think you had it in you.”

“We dated for a term,” Nathaniel grudgingly admits. “But it didn’t end very well. I suppose we could never surpass the academic rivalry.” He shakes his head. “This hardly matters. Did you hear what she said before she left? Duvall is her uncle. I can’t help but wonder if she’s in on his plans as well.”

“There’s only one way to be sure.” Bartimaeus jerks his head at the patio doors. “Come on, he’s already got a ten-minute head start on us.”

Carefully, and with one last surreptitious inspection of the teeming ballroom and weary government officials, the two of them slip out into the crisp night air. The terrace itself is wide and lined with towering ferns housed in blue marble pots. The stone balusters are carved to resemble decorative wreaths of summer blossoms, patterns that alternate along the balustrade overlooking the bustling streets. The sky overhead is calm and clear, dotted with stars and without a single trace of clouds.

They creep through the area as furtively as they dare. Through the glass, Bartimaeus can just make out the form of the lead actor delivering a long-winded soliloquy. As they approach the far end of the terrace that is hidden from view, they chance upon a white door built into the side of the building. The paint is chipped in several places and the words BOILER ROOM are printed in block letters on its wooden surface.

“You think this is where he might have disappeared?” Nathaniel asks him. 

“Must be. There isn’t anything else back here,” Bartimaeus says, with one last scope of his surroundings. He twists the knob and they descend a short staircase before coming to a stop at the start of a dimly lit hallway. The weak illumination provided by a series of single fluorescent bulbs bounces off the pale green walls to draw circles of white light on the cement floor. The corridor itself is long, not terribly wide, and stretches out in front of them before branching off in opposite routes at the end. A cloud of dust falls gently from the ceiling as it rattles with the pounding movements of the stage installed above.

“We must be directly under the main ballroom,” Nathaniel notes. They pause to listen to series of muffled songs. “Whatever is coming, it has to be around here somewhere.”

And find it they do. Because within a minute of searching, strapped to one of the main gas tanks located in the basement of the prestigious Ambassador Hotel, is a familiarly structured time bomb. With one significant exception.

“It’s set to go off,” Nathaniel says, features twisted into a mask of horror that Bartimaeus is sure is mirrored on his own. “This isn’t a decoy bomb at all. He’s really plotting to decimate the entire government.”

“Okay, slow down there, tiger.” Bartimaeus gestures at the device. The numbers reflected on the screen flash seventeen minutes and forty-three seconds remaining. “I’d hazard that ‘decimate’ is quite a strong word. Based on the size of this thing, I’m assuming old Duvall is only intent on taking out, hmm, maybe ten people. Most probably the stage actors and a couple of really unlucky audience members at the front. Then he’ll swoop in once the explosion hits and tackle Devereaux to safety. You’ll be introduced to the newest member of the Cabinet when the night is over.”

More stomping. A burst of trumpets. A chorus of laughter. Dirt rains on them. Sixteen minutes left. “This is definitely synchronised with the ongoing production,” Nathaniel remarks.

“Talk about an explosive finale,” Bartimaeus blurts out in another spectacular run of his mouth.

Nathaniel gawks at him in disbelief. “This isn’t the moment for one of your foul jokes. Innocent people are going to die if we don’t act fast!” There’s that petulant tone again. Though, the situation does rather call for it just the once. “Can you deactivate that?”

Bartimaeus lifts a shoulder. “Sure. I’m a touch out of practice, but I have deactivated a few bombs in my day.” Not so much of this prototype, but he’s had his fair share of missions that necessitated a form of quick thinking on his part. He likes to believe he saved the city of Auckland from a bomb planted to wipe out their entire population of sheep. It had taken some trial and error, but he was eventually able to deduce that the bomb was cleverly designed to stop when one pressed the off button.

“We don’t have very long,” Nathaniel frets. “I worry Kitty might be in danger the more we prolong this. You stay here and work on disassembling that.” He nods at the bomb. “And I’ll continue looking for the bearded man.”

“Hey, if you think there’s a chance of me leaving you to fend for yourself against that lunatic.” Bartimaeus all but grabs the boy by the collar as he tries to make a go for it. “I haven’t even fought the guy and I already know you’ll be mincemeat. No dice, Nathaniel. We’re doing this together.”

“There’s no time!” Nathaniel shakes off Bartimaeus’ grip, the fire behind his blue eyes blazing with righteous indignation and a decent amount of heroic stupidity. “Every second we stand here bickering is another one closer to being blown to bits in a boiler room. Not so much the poetic death an assassin of your skillset deserves, right?” Bartimaeus struggles for a response. God, when did this kid get to know him so well? “You have to trust me. I’ll be fine.”

“Be careful, alright?” Bartimaeus holds onto his wrist and slides his hand until their palms are pressed together. The stare Nathaniel directs at him is laden with intensity. The air crackles with it. “Because if this bastard kills you, I’ll never—” And this is when he chokes on the rest of his statement. _I’ll never be able to live with myself_, is what he was supposed to say. A tad dramatic, there. But—once the rest of his words fill in the blank spaces in his mind—also the unquestionable truth. Still, he settles for, “I’m coming to find you as soon as I deal with this. I mean it.”

“Then I’ll see you soon.” Nathaniel squeezes his hand briefly and then he’s off, sprinting along the passage and disappearing from sight. Bartimaeus watches him go and exhales. The little imbecile.

Once he’s alone, Bartimaeus turns to the contraption with a grim determination. His fingers fly in a flurry as he strives to unlock the mechanisms attached to the timer intended to increase pressure in increments in order to trigger the explosion. He’s just thankful the wires are colour coordinated and all. It really would have put a damper on the whole process had he tried to go into it blind. The minutes have barely whittled down to nine when Bartimaeus finally yanks the last coil out. The flashing numbers rapidly rise and then freeze in their path. All is as still and silent as a tomb.

His relief, however, is decidedly short-lived. “And what do we have here?” The unmistakeable voice of the bearded man flows through his earpiece. A bolt of fear rolls past Bartimaeus’ spine. The soft malevolence underlining the man’s pitch is even more unsettling than he remembers. “Have you come to expose us all? Bring glory back to your doomed government?”

“Something like that.” Bartimaeus fervently hopes he’s merely imagining the defiant tilt to Nathaniel’s retort. Only a fool of his caliber would dare to talk to a mercenary like this. “And it’s your employer who is doomed. An associate of mine works to expose Duvall’s intentions as we speak. Before long, the entire congregation will know of them as well.”

A hollow, borderline-demonic noise masquerading as a laugh drills itself into Bartimaeus’ head. “The hairy police officer?” the bearded man asks. Another menacing cackle. “He’s nothing more than a puppet, a face to pin the blame on while the real mastermind manipulates the strings behind the scenes.”

Bartimaeus isn’t sure if the sharp intake of breath that follows is Nathaniel’s or his own. To quote a profound and world-renowned assassin: well, this certainly complicates matters. “What are you—” Nathaniel starts.

“They warned me that you were intelligent.” Bartimaeus picks up on the echo that resonates across the floor as the bearded man presumably steps forward. “Brilliant, even. But I never anticipated you’d be so blind as to miss what’s been lurking right under your nose!” The heavy weight of his boots reverberates against the ground as he advances closer. “I assume you have your questions. And the answers to them are truly fascinating ones. But it’s unfortunate you’ll never live to hear them.”

“We’ll see about that,” Nathaniel says. And then the sound of a knife being drawn from a sheath, the _thud_ of a body dropping to the cement, a grunt of pain, harsh breathing in his ear. The listening device hisses and lets out a burst of static so loud, Bartimaeus is forced to pull the gadget from his ear, wincing in pain. When he tries to replace it, there’s nothing but an ominous radio silence.

“Nathaniel!” Bartimaeus shouts. Bloody fucking hell, he knew this would end in disaster. He immediately takes off in the direction the boy had gone, calling his name as he does. “Nathaniel!”

He’s halfway down the corridor when a second familiar voice stops him in his tracks. “Well, well, well, isn’t this an unexpected surprise.” And from the shadows, a tall, thin man emerges into the light. His features are so fine, they’re almost skeletal. Lank white-blonde hair falls in a misshapen shape over the paper-thin skin of his forehead. The expression he’s wearing is twisted into one of demented glee.

Bartimaeus’ marathon race screeches to a halt. “Honorius.”

“That’s right!” Honorius exclaims cheerfully, spreading his hands like a dancer in a cabaret. He leaps in front of Bartimaeus and lands smack in the middle portion of the hall, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed in a casually defensive stance. “Here I was, ordered to stand guard, and who should appear but another assassin such as myself. How _hilarious_ is that?”

“Totally,” Bartimaeus says uneasily. “Er, so, you were hired by them?”

“After I escaped,” he starts, the words dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I was so dreadfully bored. I wandered around the barren countryside, searching for methods to entertain myself. And I sure found them!” He smiles dreamily, vision glazing over for an instant. Bartimaeus severely hopes he never uncovers what this guy’s exact definition of fun entails. “Then one night, I receive a call to return home. This man knew the bad people that sent me away, and he promised me my revenge.” With whiplash speed, the cadence of his narration morphs into a sinister growl. His eyes are sunken where they rest in his sockets, the dark rings that encircle them prominent. In the dim brightness, he truly looks like an entity summoned from the ninth circle of hell. “But now, there’s a naughty assassin trying to put a stop to it. And I can’t allow that, no, no, no.”

“Well, as you can see, I technically did you a favour just now,” Bartimaeus answers, slowly retreating. Is it him, or has there has been a conspicuous increase in the bartering for his life as of late? “Because if that bomb had gone off, wouldn’t you also be caught in the line of fire?”

“Oh, but my instructions were purely to plant the bomb and run far, far, far from here before it could explode,” Honorius explains in a chipper tone. “As a matter of fact, I was getting ready to go on my merry way when I was informed that a rogue assassin and his meddlesome pal were seeking to foil our plans. So, I thought to myself, if I have to die a fiery death, at least I’ll drag someone with me.”

“It’s too late. The bomb is already broken beyond repair,” Bartimaeus fibs, hoping Honorius’ wits have been dulled enough from the years spent in captivity for him not to realise the wires are actually just hanging in the open, waiting for anyone with half a brain cell to plug them in again. “And have you considered that you’ve been helping the members of the same administration that had you exiled in the first place? You should be turning your tricks _on_ them, not _for_ them!”

Despite what Bartimaeus considers to be his best effort at persuasion in a long while, Honorius’ mouth stretches into a maniacal grin. “Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head on that. I’ve got it all figured out, you see. I’m going to kill them in time.” His gaze alights on Bartimaeus and his pitch lowers an octave. “After I kill you.” And that’s when Bartimaeus notices the chain in his hand. A particularly favourite weapon of his, if the stories are to be believed.

“Fuck this,” Bartimaeus mutters as Honorius strikes. He somersaults and ends up in a crouch three meters away, promptly rolling behind a gas tank as Honorius hits the spot where his head had been only seconds before. Bartimaeus allows himself a minute to assess for any lasting damage before he returns to the scene and launches himself at the madman. 

“Come out and play!” Honorius cajoles in a singsong. Well, the guy may be a total lunatic, but it soon becomes evident that his battle skills have grown even more potent with age. Bartimaeus’ attempts to wrestle the chain from his grip only result in him getting his shoulder cut in two places, as well as a nasty scratch on his cheek. When Honorius raises his hand to bring the chain down again, Bartimaeus lurches to his side and grabs onto the taller man’s legs, using this as leverage to haul himself upwards and deliver an upside-down kick to his rival’s head in the process.

“That’s not fair!” Honorius cries, clutching the broken cartilage of his nose as blood gushes in rivulets that stain the front of his shirt with lines of deep red. In spite of the obvious pain he’s in, he does nothing to stray from where he’s situated in the centre of the passageway, blocking the path to Nathaniel with his body. Bartimaeus rapidly goes over the possible courses of action in his mind. The two of them can keep at it for as long as they please, but if Honorius doesn’t move from his spot, then Bartimaeus might as well call it quits now. He surveys the area for anything he can utilise, and his eyes zero in on the fire hose cabinet attached to the wall.

Bartimaeus isn’t exactly proud of what he does next, but desperate times call for drastic measures. As Honorius continues to hop around, delivering a series of random blows at him, Bartimaeus ducks at the last second, the force from the latest chain swing sending the weapon flying at the glass case and smashing it open. Then he quickly jumps to his feet and unwinds the hose with one hand, using the other to frantically twist the handle as water begins to gurgle from the pipes to come cascading out of the nozzle. Once he’s got a steady torrent of water at his disposal, he directs it at an unsuspecting Honorius. The rumours had mentioned that Honorius was tormented with the use of all manners of water torture, and when the first jet assaults him, he lets loose a litany of Russian curses that would make Satan himself blush in shame.

Bartimaeus douses him with increasingly stronger blasts of pipe water, which causes Honorius to finally leave his post and lumber towards where Bartimaeus is standing across from him. Both assassins circle each other like prizefighters in a ring, Bartimaeus following the other man’s every movement while he struggles in vain to dodge the attacks. The two men unconsciously switch places, and as Honorius extends a hand through the wall of water that surrounds him, searching blindly for the valve in order to stop the flow, Bartimaeus shoves the hose at him with a final burst of energy. He races along the length of the hall, while behind him, Honorius grapples with the tool as the sound of churning water drowns the noise of his furious roars.

At the end of this hallway is a red door. Bartimaeus bolts towards it, his imagination running wild with the possibilities of what state he’s likely to find the boy in. Something twists sharply in his gut at the thought of Nathaniel dead and gone, never to sit up and fix him with one of his dry glares or sarcastic responses again. This notion only propels him forward, and he bursts through the door with all the strength of a hurricane. 

“Nathaniel!” he yells again. The room he finds himself in is spartan and damp, with nothing but empty crates and old paint buckets littered throughout the area. And standing in the middle of the floor, with his hands braced on his knees as he doubles over, panting with exhaustion, is…

“Nathaniel,” Bartimaeus repeats in awe. The palpable relief that instantly floods his system allows him to absorb the current situation in full. The bearded man is slumped to the ground, unconscious, while his hands are bound together with a coil of string. Standing above his body like a victorious warrior is Nathaniel, definitely a little worse for wear. Shirt untucked, suit jacket torn, sweat running down his neck, and when he glances up, Bartimaeus spies the makings of an impressive bruise already starting to form near his jaw. At his feet lie shards of splintered wood.

“I told you,” he gasps, “that I wasn’t completely incapable of defending myself.” He straightens up with obvious effort, and Bartimaeus sees the blood seeping from a cut on his right side. “And you told me he was more than eight feet tall.”

“You defeated the bearded man,” Bartimaeus says, stunned. His eyes sweep the scene in front of him once more, as if his brain is unwilling to believe it. “_You_ did this.” And it is utterly ridiculous that despite everything, despite the arguments about _Game of Thrones_ and the Saturday morning brunches and the many hours, days, months spent in each other’s company, despite the fact that Bartimaeus is pretty sure he would actually _die_ for this idiot, this is the precise moment he realises he’s in love. “I’m very proud of you.”

Nathaniel clears his throat and spots of pink bloom across his cheeks. “Thank you.”

A small cloud of butterflies land in Bartimaeus’ stomach. It—it isn’t an awful sensation. “How did you manage it?”

“Well, you certainly weren’t exaggerating his prowess in combat,” Nathaniel tells him. “He had a pocket knife and the rope in his possession, so I suspect he really meant to bait me in here for when the explosion hit. I distracted him by feigning your arrival, and when he turned to check, I had a little help from the chair I attacked him with.”

Bartimaeus frowns. “You did what?”

“I hit him with an old chair,” Nathaniel explains, and he gestures to the pieces of wood on the floor. “It didn’t survive the impact, unfortunately.”

“I’m still impressed,” Bartimaeus replies, and Nathaniel grins at him. “Nathaniel, I—”

But Nathaniel cuts him off with a shake of his head. “There’s still more for us to do. I assume you overheard what the bearded man said. Duvall isn’t the brains behind this operation. Someone with more power put him up to it, and it’s on us now to uncover who that is.”

Christ, so much for Bartimaeus’ attempt at a big romantic declaration. Then again, he hadn’t really been gearing up to saying much aside from a sentiment along the lines of, “I don’t hate you nearly as much as I pretend to. Or at all, for that matter.” But as he makes to respond, the silence is shattered by the shrill ringing of a mobile phone.

Nathaniel’s focus shifts to the bearded man’s prone form. “Should we answer that?”

“Might as well,” Bartimaeus says with a shrug. “Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and it’s whoever is actually in charge calling for a quick chat.” He digs through the pockets of the mercenary’s long, black coat for the offending device. “This has gone on for far too long if you want my opinion. I almost want to congratulate them for the sheer complexity of their plan.” He presses the phone to his ear. “Hello?” 

And on the other end of the line, the voice of Quentin Makepeace, famed playwright, connoisseur of the arts, and aspiring terrorist, asks, “Is everything set?”

—

Bartimaeus would like to pretend the discourse that follows as he unmasks the mystery mastermind behind this elaborate scheme is a discussion peppered with smooth repartee and witticisms as he calmly and coolly questions the man on his motives and intentions. Unfortunately, real life so rarely patterns itself after how people imagine it, and the actual conversation that arises in response to the big reveal goes something like this:

“Holy shit,” Bartimaeus breathes, staring at the boy with wide eyes. “It’s Makepeace.”

Nathaniel’s mouth drops open. “Makepeace?” he echoes in disbelief. “Are you absolutely positive?”

“Verroq,” Makepeace snaps. “Answer me rapidly: have you eliminated the threat? The production is due to end in two minutes. I’m approaching your accommodation as we speak.”

Bartimaeus ignores this outburst. “I’m telling you, it’s him,” he hisses, not bothering to mute the call. “Who would have expected those huge frilly trousers to house such an evil genius?”

“Who is this?” Makepeace demands. His question is a touch frantic. “Verroq, if this is a nasty trick on your part, you better believe I will do everything in my capacity to ensure you suffer the intended consequences.”

Nathaniel goggles at him incredulously. “What on earth would _Makepeace_ serve to gain from this?”

“Oh, let me just ask him, shall I?” Bartimaeus intones. “Besides, I’m certain Kitty would be better equipped to answer that. She’s the one currently staked out in the hotel room trying to…” The dial tone in his ear. “He hung up on me.”

“You should have questioned him while you had the chance!” Nathaniel protests. “I can’t believe you allowed this opportunity to slip through our fingers.”

“Me?” Bartimaeus argues. Again with this game of Pin the Blame on the Assassin. “Listen, buddy, it’s not as if you were anticipating a _playwright_ to have engineered this, either. And if you want to talk about missed opportunities, then you should have recorded that phone call on your mobile.”

Nathaniel scoffs. “Well, you’re the professional, remember?” he counters. “_You_ should have considered this beforehand.” He raises an eyebrow. “Besides, you didn’t bother to put him on speakerphone. Is the one-sided dialogue I was listening to meant to be your idea of conclusive evidence?”

Goddammit, this kid needs to stop making excellent points. Bartimaeus decides to go on the defensive. “He’s probably already cottoned on to the fact that his plan has gone horribly awry,” he reasons. “I reckon he’ll come charging through that door in a minute. I’ll deal with him then.” This last declaration is delivered with a copious amount of false bravado sprinkled on top of it. In all honesty, his limbs feel like they’re made out of slime. Another brawl and he’d probably crumple to the floor.

Nathaniel crosses his arms. “Perhaps I should confront him myself. He needs to be held accountable for his crimes against the government.”

“Hold your horses there, Ned Stark,” Bartimaeus says. “We’re talking about a man who wields enough significant influence to order around the likes of Honorius and this poor fellow.” He nudges the bearded man’s leg with the tip of his shoe. “Who knows what other arsenal of assassins he’s got stashed away in those massive sleeves? Have you ever heard of the Golem? Now that’s a man you don’t want on your tail. Encountered him once on a mission in Prague.” From afar.

But Nathaniel, who in recent months has developed a rather overt interest in the specifics of Bartimaeus’ line of work, simply glares at him. “I told you to trust me and you did,” he replies. “And as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, says the boy who can barely hold himself upright,” Bartimaeus returns. “If the bearded man didn’t manage to kill you, then Makepeace is bound to.” Nathaniel makes an indignant noise of objection, but Bartimaeus exhales deeply, steels his resolve, and continues. “And, look, you—you really won’t be doing me any favours by dying, alright?”

His declaration hangs in the space between them. Nathaniel blinks, swallows thickly. “And you think I don’t feel the same?” he asks quietly. “For an assassin, your observation skills are in dire need of some fine-tuning.” As Bartimaeus struggles for a response, he appears to remember the problem at hand. “Speaking of which, where _is_ Makepeace?”

Bartimaeus, his mind still stuck in the haze that had overcome him in the wake of Nathaniel’s answer, takes a second to shift the gears in his brain back to stealth mode. “He should have been here by now. The lack of pandemonium and violent screaming implies the bomb I deactivated was the only one.”

“Well, did he mention anything else?” Nathaniel prods. “I assume he wasn’t in the main ballroom when he contacted you.”

Bartimaeus reflects on their brief exchange. “No, but he did tell me he was on his way to…” Realisation strikes him like lightning and the blood in his veins transforms to ice. “The bearded man’s hotel room.”

The two men glance at each other in horror. “Kitty.”

“He must have discovered her there!” Nathaniel exclaims, already making a mad dash for the exit. 

“I’m right ahead of you,” Bartimaeus replies. His hand has just closed around the steel handle when the door is suddenly thrown open with such force, Nathaniel is tossed into the air and comes to land in a heap on the cement ground. Bartimaeus turns to survey the offending party, and finds most of the senior Cabinet members spilling through the entrance and into the room. Kitty stands at the helm, along with a struggling Duvall, a shell-shocked Makepeace, and a soaking wet Honorius, now reduced to a gibbering mess, being held by a team of baffled security officers behind them.

“You did it!” Kitty cheers. Her hair has come undone and spills in a wave down her back. The hem of her gown is split, leaving a ragged asymmetrical tear that stops just below her knees. Quite stylish in itself, Bartimaeus has to note. Aside from a few noticeable scrapes, she seems otherwise unharmed.

Bartimaeus hauls Nathaniel to his feet, and the boy scrutinises her in concern, checking for any signs of pain or injuries. “Are you alright?” he asks. “What happened?”

“I’ve got everything right here.” Kitty dangles a silver flash drive in front of them. “I’ll admit it was a bit more complicated than I anticipated, but I was almost finished when he came storming in.” She gestures at Makepeace, who is observing the events unfold with the same blank glance adopted by most patrons of his work. His hands are tied together with the missing fabric from Kitty’s dress. “Luckily, I’ve had a great deal of practice when it comes to defending myself.” The satisfaction radiates from her in waves as she faces Jessica Whitwell. “I believe you’ll find all incriminating files on this flash drive, but please be sure to also inspect the computer located at room twenty-three. It contains encrypted messages between Mr. Duvall, Mr. Makepeace, and that man, Verroq, who had been hired to aid in their attempt to overthrow the Cabinet. A man named Clive Jenkins along with a few of his associates from your department are also suspected of having knowledge of this plan.”

There’s a brief bout of confused murmuring as the rest of the government members wonder how to go about with receiving orders from a virtual stranger. But it’s at this point that Duvall jolts to life, his gaze alighting on Bartimaeus. “I knew it!” His bushy hair falls across his forehead as he strives to break free from the guards’ hold. “I knew you looked familiar. You’re one of them from the agency, aren’t you? You were hired to—”

“The waiter from earlier?” Carl Mortensen asks in shock. “How could you have possibly known him, Henry? Which agency do you speak of?”

But Duvall’s jaw clicks shut and he stares at Bartimaeus in mute fury, having realised he’d been on the verge of a confession. It falls on Bartimaeus now to formulate a plausible excuse. “Er…”

“Modelling agency,” Nathaniel blurts out in a loud voice. “I believe that’s what Mr. Duvall is referring to. He’s, er, a part-time model.”

Bartimaeus nods sagely. “I take on waitering gigs to help pay the bills, you know,” he offers. “Done a bit of catalog work as well. My agent tells me I’m due for my big break any day now.”

Helen Malbindi appraises him from behind her spectacles. “Aren’t you also the barista from Pinn’s Coffee?”

A stilted pause. “Just another one of my many part-time jobs?” Bartimaeus responds weakly.

“You!” This time, the astonished cry erupts from Makepeace, who has finally shaken himself into awareness. “You’re the man from the audition!” he adds. “My assistant had been trying to contact you for weeks to tell you that you landed the role!”

Nathaniel and Kitty swivel towards him. “What audition?” they ask in unison.

“Er, nothing.” Bartimaeus scans the room, searching for a means to draw the attention from him. Whitwell is watching the entire exchange unfold with an indecipherable expression, one that spells nothing but trouble. Duvall is still glaring daggers at him, but unless he wants to explicitly admit he’d hired an assassin, he’s got to remain silent. Makepeace appears mournful, no doubt lamenting the loss of Bartimaeus’ acting career. The rest of the ministers are either baffled or alarmed. “That doesn’t matter.” He addresses Makepeace. “What I’m curious about is what a man like you is doing spearheading this complex government conspiracy.” He jerks a thumb at Duvall. “Sure, I understand what he stood to gain from this, but you’re a playwright for God’s sake. What would a calculated usurping of the Cabinet do for you? Did Duvall here promise to award you a Nobel Prize if he was Prime Minister or something?”

The hush that follows as Makepeace digests this indicates Bartimaeus had hit the nail right on the head. “There will be sufficient opportunities for you to explain yourselves when I begin my interrogation,” Ms. Whitwell barks. “The rest of you, get a move on lest the Prime Minister catches wind of this.” The assembled party scatter like flies, taking the three culprits as they go.

Whitwell inclines her head at the bearded man, and another enforcer enters and yanks him to a standing position, struggling immensely under the weight of the man’s mass. “Please also retrieve Mr. Jenkins and escort him to the station. I shall be conducting a thorough investigation on all police units next week.” The man nods and half-drags the bearded man from the room. Once alone, Whitwell turns to them. “Underwood, I expect a full report on this by Monday morning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nathaniel replies. No prizes for predicting how many cups of coffee Bartimaeus is going to have to brew for him over the remainder of the weekend.

“Bring these two with you,” Whitwell orders. “I’m most interested to hear how you uncovered the root of this plot. And I’m certain Mr. Button would benefit greatly from their…special skills as well.” The look she shoots Bartimaeus as she departs suggests she’s aware he’s never graced the covers of _Cosmopolitan_.

The sound of her heels clacking across the floor drifts away and the tension encircling them eases. “Mr. Button?” Bartimaeus repeats. “Now that’s as ominous a phrase as I’ve ever heard. What sort of methods of torture is your department employing, Nat?”

To his complete and utter surprise, Nathaniel ducks his chin, lips pressed together as he fights a smile. It only took an assassination attempt and a half, but the boy is finally amused by him. But before he’s allowed to bask in the glory of such a momentous occasion, Kitty speaks first. “Mr. Button,” she muses. “That’s the man I was sitting next to at dinner.”

“Harold Button,” Nathaniel confirms. “Director General of the Security Service.”

A stunned silence. “Are you telling me she just offered us a job with the M15?” Kitty asks in a low voice.

Bartimaeus blows out a sigh. “You, maybe,” he replies. “On the other hand, we’ve got approximately forty-eight hours to get our story in check. Any ideas on how I can avoid arrest would be much appreciated.”

“Well, she’s going to have a hell of a hard time proving you’re anything but a law-abiding citizen,” Kitty reassures him. “Because once I’m done, all traces of your name will be wiped from every computer network in the world.” She grins at him. “I stick to my promises.”

“Thank you, Kitty,” Bartimaeus says sincerely.

She beams at him. “We did it.” The three of them stand awash with the wave of their triumph, letting her phrase seep into the air. Yes, the journey was lengthy and difficult and at times nearly impossible. But they’ve all come a long way from the night he was accosted by a young girl wielding a gun in the middle of the sitting room of the house where he now lives, and they did it. “And in the meantime, I think I’ll go ahead and enjoy the rest of this party.” The wordless instructions beneath her actions is clear as she walks off and shuts the door behind her.

For a second after her departure, no one moves. Nathaniel seems to be lost in his thoughts, having withdrawn into himself during the last few minutes of their conversation. “Right, so, I guess that’s it, then,” Bartimaeus says, breaking the stillness. “Seeing as we’ve accomplished what we set out to do, there’s actually no reason for me to stick around.”

Nathaniel steps forward. “Bartimaeus.”

“And I know our bedroom arrangement was purely for safety purposes, so I can have all my belongings out of your house before the weekend is done,” he continues. Bartimaeus knows he’s rambling like a loon, but he thinks he’d be able to live more with Nathaniel telling him to shut up rather than to get lost. The former of which he’s had hurled at him a countless number of instances in the past.

“You,” Nathaniel starts slowly, “are such an idiot.” But his tone is fond, the corner of his mouth quirking into that familiar half-smile, and Bartimaeus finds himself unconsciously mirroring the gesture in response. He could have really done with a warning as to when exactly he’d become so far gone on this kid.

“Hey.” Bartimaeus’ throat works as he swallows. “That’s my line.”

But Nathaniel isn’t finished. “We share a bed, you wait up for me when I’m working late—”

“For safety!” Bartimaeus cuts in. “Not because, you know, I care or anything absurd like that.”

Nathaniel ignores him. “—we have a _dog_.” 

Bartimaeus lifts his eyebrows. “Oh, so now Ptolemy is _our_ dog, but that one day he had a little accident on one of your Persian rugs, he was _my_ dog—”

Nathaniel rolls his eyes, an act undercut with the faint shimmer of mirth still playing along his features. “Honestly, what else could this have been?”

“Wait. So you knew?” Make that strike three in the name of his general obliviousness. “That’s it. We are definitely going to have to work on communicating if we want this relationship to function.” And it’s only once the implications of this statement settle in does he realise, hell, they’re genuinely about to do this. In the dark and dingy basement of a hotel, no less. Totally sets the bar for the future.

Nathaniel flushes. “It wasn’t all me,” he admits. “I had some guidance.” Bartimaeus is going to kiss Kitty within an inch of her life after this. Then Nathaniel follows that up with, “It was your friend, Faquarl.”

“Okay, let’s get this straight, Faquarl is not my friend, and—hold on, say that again.” Bartimaeus feels as if he’s just been smacked round the head with a haddock. A sensation he’s grown accustomed to because it’s happened to him on more than one mission. The women in coastal towns can be incredibly feisty. “What? How? When?” he stammers, unable to believe his ears.

“One afternoon he showed up, put his hand on my shoulder, said, ‘He took a job in a coffee shop for you. Reflect on that carefully,’ and left. The experience was wholly disconcerting, but it also forced me to think, and I—” Nathaniel shrugs. “I meant to tell you, but there was also a very real possibility of that discussion ending with a knife embedded in my back.”

Bartimaeus’ heart reindeer-prances in his chest. He’s officially a walking cliché. And he couldn’t care less. “It isn’t entirely your fault. Considering I hadn’t even noticed at first.”

“You were hired to kill me and I let you move into my house.” Nathaniel sounds exasperated, but he also sounds pleased, like he doesn’t quite believe they’ve reached this point. “I can’t imagine I could have made my feelings any clearer than if I’d shouted them from the rooftop.”

A dozen images of the two of them over the last nine months flit through Bartimaeus’ mind. “That long?”

“I—maybe,” Nathaniel says. “It’s hard to tell. They sort of…crept up on me.”

Bartimaeus is convinced his lungs are failing, if the constriction within his rib cage is any indication. “Strange, how you let that happen. I could have still killed you in an instant.”

The stare Nathaniel fixes him with is laden with a thousand unspoken words and the meanings behind each one, and Bartimaeus will gladly devote his hours to untangling them all. “I suppose it’s because I trust you.”

“Oh.” Bartimaeus takes in the fire in the boy’s expression, how the air around them is suddenly charged with electricity, the static that precedes a thunderstorm. “Stupid of you, really. Putting your trust in a professional assassin.”

“I _have_ been told I lack a sense of self-preservation,” Nathaniel deadpans. But he’s looking directly at Bartimaeus, bright blue eyes shining, and this comes as such a punch to the gut because Bartimaeus has never seen him look at anything like that. Like he’s _happy_. This bastard. Bartimaeus wants to kiss him. Has wanted to for longer than he cares to admit.

So he does.

—

They’re the most unusual couple the people of London have ever encountered. The brilliant yet reserved Minister for Security and the sarcastic, wise-cracking M15 agent, never one photographed without the other by their side, the bond forged between them so deep, many a news outlet has speculated that they’re capable of reading each other’s minds.

As the years go by, whenever a bored housewife or a nosy tabloid reporter dares to approach the man’s assistant with the burning question, the papers report she consistently answers with nothing more than a small, enigmatic smile, and tells them the two met in a coffee shop.

What she doesn’t disclose is that their first meeting was a meticulously orchestrated ploy designed so that Bartimaeus could slip a vial of poison into Nathaniel’s drink.

But the less everyone knows, the better.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [death is warmer than love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22013842) by [Maiden_of_the_Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon)
  * [in sickness, in health, but mostly for safety](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22124842) by [Maiden_of_the_Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon)
  * [better after death](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22796326) by [Maiden_of_the_Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon)
  * [heartbeats](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23547565) by [Maiden_of_the_Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon)


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